


Leave This Blue Neighbourhood

by BookishMakara



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on the Blue Neighbourhood Trilogy (Troye Sivan), Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Sorry Not Sorry, The Later Chapters Are Better I Promise, There is no magic, Updates Monday and Friday, except the magic of loooooooove, of course that has its own tag, there are a dozen fics just like this but I don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-05-02 08:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 29,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookishMakara/pseuds/BookishMakara
Summary: Based on Troye Sivan’s album Blue Neighbourhood.Simon and Baz have been friends since they were little, when Baz’s family moved in next door to Simon’s. Their friendship is secrets and laughter and football, but Simon is haunted by a ghost darker than either of them can face. Behind closed doors, David Salisbury takes his pent-up anger out on Simon. Baz does his best to pick him up, but it’s taking its toll on them both. How long can they keep going before one of them breaks?





	1. In Suburbia

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I posted any fics, and I apologize if this is utter crap, but I'm sending it out into the world anyway. So... here goes.

SIMON

Blue eyes and bronze curls stare out the bedroom window at the moving van next door.

Simon has known for weeks that a new family would be moving into the empty house next to his, and he’s been buzzing with excitement ever since. Finally he’ll have someone his own age to play with!

All the other kids on his street avoid him They never stick around very long before their parents tell them it’s better for them to stay away from the boy who always gets into fights. But he overheard the neighbours saying that the new family has an eight-year-old son, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the mystery boy since.

He’s watching, hawklike, as a luxury car pulls up to the curb, eyes peeled for an eight year-old boy. A black-haired man gets out first, followed by a brunette woman in a blue sundress. And then the back doors open and a woman dressed in black leather climbs out, followed by a boy who looks to be Simon’s age, a boy with jet-black hair hanging down to his shoulders and reddish-brown skin.

Simon shoves away from the window and bolts down the stairs faster than he thought possible. He’s almost to the door when a voice speaks from the hall behind him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” his father asks. Simon skids to a stop and turns to face him. He’s only eight, but he already knows to address his father as  _ sir _ and to stay out of the way when his words start slanting and his feet start tripping over themselves.

“To meet the new neighbours, sir,” Simon says innocently, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight as a rod.

“They’ve arrived, have they?” His father doesn’t seem angry, but Simon has learned that it’s best if he keeps on his best behavior anyway, to avoid getting lectured the next time his father gets drunk.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why don’t you give them some time to get their stuff moved in? Come on, you can watch the game with me.”

Simon doesn’t really like to watch sports; he thinks it’s stupid to watch someone else play instead of playing yourself. But his father enjoys them, and he likes spending time with him, so he follows him into the living room.

* * *

 

Nearly two hours later, the game has ended -- their team won, if his father’s cheers were anything to go by -- and Simon is standing in his neighbour’s driveway, watching movers carry boxes inside. He doesn’t see the black-haired boy anywhere.

It takes a few minutes for anyone to notice him, but eventually the brown-haired woman walks over to Simon and crouches down.

“Good morning.” Her tone is cordial.

“Hi,” he mumbles.

“How can I help you?”

Simon doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s never been asked that question before.

“Do you want to meet your new neighbours?”

He nods, and she straightens up.

“I’ll go get my stepson. He’s about your age,” she says, and click-clacks back to the house.

Simon taps his fingers nervously against his leg as he waits for her to return. He doesn’t know what to expect from this boy. Is he nice? Mean? Will he even want to spend time with Simon?

Before he can get too deep into considering these questions, the sound of heels comes back, a second set of footsteps accompanying it.

Simon looks up. The woman is back, with the black-haired boy just behind her. He’s got his hands in his pockets, expression bored as he walks up.

This boy looks like he belongs on a magazine cover. His long black hair is wavy and soft-looking. His navy blue jacket and faded jeans look expensive. Even his T-shirt looks designer. With his grey eyes and lazy smile, he practically screams money.

Simon finds himself glancing down at his own outfit - shabby jeans, an old T-shirt, and worn sneakers. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his hair is a disaster. It always is.

“Baz, this is your new neighbour,” the woman says.

“Yeah, I guessed as much,” the boy - Baz - responds lazily. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” He sticks out his hand.

Simon takes it, surprised by how cold Baz’s hand feels. “Simon Salisbury.”

Baz drops his hand, shoving it back into his pocket. “So, Simon. Mind helping me get out of moving?”

Simon shrugs, hoping that Baz will understand that means he doesn’t mind.

“Wait here,” Baz says, and he strides back to the house.

Simon waits.

When Baz comes back, he has a red bouncy ball, and he’s kicking it up in the air it on his knees as he walks...somehow.

“Want to play?” he asks.

Simon nods, and Baz walks backwards down the sidewalk, still bouncing the ball, before he stops and kicks Simon the ball.

The difference in their skill levels is astounding. Baz is strong, graceful, and ruthless. He always hits exactly where he aims.

Simon, on the other hand, is awkward and erratic. His aim is poor, and he has to keep running off down the street to chase after the rogue ball.

They pass it back and forth until Baz’s stepmother calls him in for dinner, and Simon has to watch his reason to stay out of the house stride across the lawn and disappear through the door that silhouetted the brunette woman only moments ago.

With a sigh, Simon turns and heads back to his own house.


	2. The Sun Sets Longer

SIMON

When his father answers the door the next morning, Simon watching from the living room doorway, it’s to find Baz standing on his porch with the red ball, doing that knee-bounce thing again.

“Hi, Mr. Salisbury,” he says politely, kicking the ball into the air and tucking it under his arm as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’m just here to ask Simon if he wants to come play football.”

Simon’s father turns back to look at him. “May I, sir?” he asks, hands clasped behind him, back ramrod straight, just the way his father likes him to be.

Mr. Salisbury considers it for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he says finally. “Just be back by sundown. And don’t get into any fights, young man.”

“I won’t. Thank you, sir.” Simon slips under his father’s arm and out the door.

“Did you just call him ‘sir’?” Baz asks as Simon’s father closes the door behind him. “Jeez, and I thought  _ my  _ parents were strict.”

Simon shrugs.

“...Right. So, since I literally  _ just _ moved in and have no idea where anything is, you’re gonna have to lead us to the park.”

Simon nods, grasps Baz’s hand and, ignoring the peculiar twist in his stomach, pulls him down the street towards the park. At the last moment, he throws a glance back at his house, and there, silhouetted in the window, staring after them with a disapproving glare, is Simon’s father. Quickly, almost as if it burns him, Simon drops Baz’s hand. Baz glances down at the space where their hands just were, then up at Simon quizzically, but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Baz asks as they reach the edge of the park.

Simon shakes his head.

“But you  _ can _ talk.”

Simon nods. If he tries to say too much, he trips over his words, nothing makes sense, and some of his meaner classmates tease him for it… which usually leads to him losing his temper and taking a swing at someone. So he does his best to keep speaking to a minimum.

“Why don’t you?”

Simon shrugs. “I don’t like to,” he says, and that’s the end of that.

* * *

 

BAZ

The neighbours are weird.

Well, Simon is, anyway.

He doesn’t like to talk, which is weird in and of itself. Baz has never met anyone who disliked talking the way Simon does.

But then there’s the way he just showed up on their driveway yesterday. Daphne would never let him visit strangers unsupervised, neighbours or not. And there’s also what his father said about him getting into fights… 

Baz is curious about this boy.

They reach the park, and Baz runs off ahead, tossing the ball in front of him. He passes it, stops, turns, and kicks it to Simon in one fluid motion. Simon fumbles but manages not to let it roll past, then kicks it back toward Baz, who stops it easily. He’s been practicing to join his new school’s football team, and he’s gotten pretty good, if he says so himself.

They go on like that until lunch, when they race back to Baz’s house for sandwiches and fruit punch. Afterwards, they go exploring, making up games to play around the neighbourhood. Neither one pays attention to the time.

Simon jerks his head up when the streetlights flicker on, surprise and fear etched on his face. Without a word, he takes off running back down the street house.

“Simon, wait!” Baz calls, tearing after his weird neighbour.

* * *

 

SIMON

How could he have been so stupid?

He’d been so wrapped up in finally having a friend to play with -  a friend who didn’t live halfway across town, and who didn’t know what everyone says about him - that he hadn’t noticed the sky growing dark. His father always told him to be home by sunset, and he even made sure to remind him this morning! He has to be at least half an hour late.

Maybe Simon would be lucky and his father would be sober today, and the lecture wouldn’t be as bad as normal.

He could hear Baz running along the street behind him, gaining fast. Simon wishes he’d paid better attention. He doesn’t want to scare his new friend away yet.

(It’s bound to happen eventually. It always does.)

Baz has almost caught up with him when they reach Simon’s house. Simon runs up to the door, glancing briefly over his shoulder to make sure the dark-haired boy isn’t following him up the steps.

He’s standing at the foot of the driveway, out of breath, staring at Simon like he’s a puzzle he can’t quite crack.

Simon doesn’t like that stare. He doesn’t need this boy knowing his secrets, not yet. If he wants this friendship to work, he’s going to have to keep some things to himself.

He takes a deep breath in, bracing himself for his father’s anger, and slips inside the door.


	3. They Always Say That Nothing Ever Changes

BAZ

Baz can’t stop thinking about the mystery that is Simon Salisbury.

He’s just so... _different_ from everyone Baz has ever known.

All the kids at his last school were snooty and rich. They were boisterous and loud and treated the world like it was fashioned just to please them. None of them were the slightest bit like Simon.

Simon is quiet and reserved. He doesn’t appear to be at all rich. His jeans were torn, his shirt stretched and faded, and his house looks downright shabby compared to the mansion in St. Albans.

But he came over to meet the neighbours. He played football with Baz, despite being horrible at it. And the way he looked just before he went into his house… He’s never seen anyone look that scared to be going home before.

He doesn’t know why, but Baz is intrigued by Simon Salisbury.

“Basilton, you’re not eating,” Daphne comments. “Is everything okay?”

“Hm?” Baz looks up. “Oh. Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just thinking about starting school next week.”

His new school, he knows, is nothing like his old one. It’s public, for one thing. (Daphne had worried that if he grew up surrounded by all that money, he would become spoiled.)

(That didn’t stop her from hiring a new maid when they moved, though.)

“You’ll be fine,” Fiona assures him. “You’re a Pitch. You can handle yourself.”

“Besides, doesn’t that new friend of yours go to Watford as well?” Daphne asks.

Baz nods. “He’s in my year.”

“That’s good. You’ll have at least one friendly face in your class. Now.” Daphne pauses to wipe a bit of food off of Mordelia’s chin. “Eat your chicken before it gets cold.”

* * *

 

SIMON

He can hear the telly from the living room in the back of the house. Maybe if he’s careful, he can sneak upstairs without his father noticing.

_Creeeeeak._

“Simon! Get in here.”

Simon cringes, furious with himself for having forgotten that the third stair from the bottom always creaks. Tentatively, he slips back down the stairs and plods down the hall.

Just as he had dreaded, even though he has work tomorrow, his father is lounging on the couch, beer in one hand, remote in the other. A couple of empty bottles are resting on the coffee table. His bleary eyes are red and watery, and his face is flushed. _Drunk,_ Simon thinks. _I’m in for it this time._

“What time do you call this?” David Salisbury asks his son.

Simon hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Come here.”

Wary, Simon approaches, stopping in front of his father. The stench of alcohol burns his nose.

“Now, you listen here, boy,” David says, poking a wavering finger at Simon’s chest. “The only reason I’m not beating the tar out of your sorry arse is because I loved your mother, and she had this weird idea that it’s wrong to beat kids who deserve it. But you come home late again and I won’t be so forgiving.”

“Yes, sir,” Simon squeaks, stumbling when his father pushes him away.

“Good. Now get out of my sight.”

Simon doesn’t need to be told twice. He bolts down the hall, up the stairs and into his room.

Drained and terrified, he collapses on his bed, not even having the energy to turn on the light as he comes in.

He knows the rules. He _knows_ he’s not supposed to come home after sunset, or interrupt his father’s movies, or make noise when he’s sleeping. He knows he’s not supposed to ask for stuff or leave dishes in the sink or do a million other things. He knows.

But he did it anyway.

If his mother were alive, she might be able to help him somehow. Maybe she’d keep his father from drinking so much. (Maybe. Simon never knew her. She died giving birth to him.) But she’s gone, and he’s alone. He loves his father, really, but he’s also afraid of him. He becomes a different person when he’s drunk. Louder, more threatening. Simon never knows when he’s going to go off.

After a time, his terror fades and he falls into an uneasy sleep, plagued by nightmares.


	4. You Were Trying To Wear Me Down

BAZ

Baz is woken at sunrise by a scream from outside his window.

He spent half the night unpacking, since he was too nervous and excited about his new school to sleep anyway. He’d gotten his desk set up before Daphne came in and told him to go to bed (which he took as a cue to keep the noise to a minimum). So he broke out a box of books and read until he fell asleep in the middle of a sentence.

He jerks awake at the sound of the scream, book fluttering closed without his head to hold it open. When he bolts over to find the source, he realizes he can see straight into the house next door - Simon’s. His new friend -- at least, Baz _hopes_ they’re friends -- is sitting bolt upright in his bed, chest heaving, hair a disaster zone, legs tangled in his sheets. His face is a map of terror, tears shining in his eyes. He doesn’t notice Baz.

As he watches, Simon pulls his legs up towards his chest and buries his face in the blankets. The way his shoulders shake makes it obvious to Baz that he’s crying.

He knows it’s wrong to watch this, to intrude on someone’s privacy this way, but he can’t tear his eyes from the sobbing boy next door.

Simon stays like that for nearly half an hour. Baz keeps thinking that one of his parents must be coming to check on him soon -- if Baz heard him scream from all the way over here, surely they must have heard it too -- but no one does.

Eventually Simon’s tears subside, the spell he was under breaking, and as he wipes his eyes on his shirtsleeve, he looks up and catches Baz staring at him, frozen.

Neither of the boys moved. Then Simon gives Baz a weak smile and says softly, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Baz shakes his head, surprised. He’s never seen such a raw display of fear and despair, never seen someone switch moods that fast. His usual snarky demeanor is gone.

Simon disentangles himself from his bedsheets and walked over to the window. “Stop staring. I’m fine.”

Baz snaps himself out of his stupor. “Right, yeah. Hey, do you want to come over and play video games today?”

“I’ve got chores.”

“Right. I need to unpack anyway. Maybe later?”

Simon shrugs. “I’ll ask my dad, if he’s home. See you later.” And, eyes still red from crying, a grimace of a smile painted on his face, he whisks his curtains closed just as Baz hears his own father’s alarm echoing down the hall.

* * *

 

SIMON

Technically, he wasn’t lying to Baz. He _does_ have chores to do.

His father has already left for work by the time Simon gets downstairs. He’s left a note on the counter, written in his usual scrawled handwriting. His father’s handwriting always looks like it’s trying to run away.

_Simon,_

_I think you know that your behavior last night was unacceptable. When I ask you to be home at a certain time, I expect you home at that time. You may not go out today, nor may you have any friends over or use screens. Here is a list of things I would like you to do before I arrive home from work._

 

  * __Clean your room__


  * _Sweep the house_


  * _Wash the dishes_


  * _Do the laundry_


  * _Vacuum the carpets_


  * _Take out the trash and recycling_



 

_After you have completed these tasks, you may do what you like, so long as you do not leave the house or use screens in any way._

_We’ll be having Chinese food for dinner. Don’t spoil your appetite._

_I love you._

_Dad_

Well, so much for playing video games with Baz. Simon sighs and grabs a loaf of bread from the pantry to begin making breakfast for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that's quite a lot of chores for an eight-year-old. It's partly that I don't know how children work, and partly the point of Davy's parenting style.


	5. And My Hopes, They Are High, But I Must Keep Them Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have like 16 chapters back-logged and I'm on a 17th right now so I'm changing this to update bi-weekly because I'm impatient and crave validation! Bone apple teeth, dear padawans.

SIMON

The sun is drifting lazily down towards the horizon when Simon hears the music drifting through the window.

His crayon freezes on the page, leaving the cloud-obscured circle he’s drawing in the corner for the sun half-finished. Softly, almost afraid to breathe as if it might scare the music away, Simon slips off of his bed and pads across the room to peek through the curtain. There, in his own room, is Baz, sitting in his desk chair with a music stand in front of him, playing the violin. He’s wearing this look of concentration, and his hair is falling into his face.

The song is beautiful. Simon forgets all about his picture and just closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in the music, in the rise and fall of the notes, in the beauty of the sound. It’s an energetic tune, the sort that makes him feel like he should be engaged in some grand, dancelike battle or a race against time.

When it stops, his eyes shoot open, and he claps without thinking, a grin splitting his face.

Baz jumps, nearly dropping his violin, and stares at Simon in shock.

“I didn’t know you were listening,” he says, blushing slightly.  
Simon pushes the curtain aside and leans out his window. (He broke the screen ages ago, and his dad hasn’t gotten around to replacing it.) (Simon thinks he forgot about it.) (He does that kind of a lot.)

“You’re good at that,” he tells Baz.

Baz’s blush deepens, staining his reddish-brown cheeks a deep syrup colour. “Thank you.”

“What song was that?”

“It’s just the _Doctor Who_ theme.”

“What’s _Doctor Who_?”

Baz gapes. “How in the blazes have you never watched _Doctor Who_?” he asks, horrified.

“Er.” It’s all he can think to say. The truth is, he hasn’t, but it seems important to Baz, and he doesn’t like to upset people.

“That settles it. You’re coming to my house tomorrow, and we’re watching the first season _._ ”

Simon isn’t entirely sure his dad will let him, especially after yesterday, but he nods anyway.

Someone opens Baz’s bedroom door. It’s the brunette woman.

“Basilton, it’s- Oh. Hello, Simon.” She seems surprised to see him, but she regains her composure quickly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Simon says. “And you?”

“Just brilliant, thank you. Basilton, it’s time for dinner.”

Baz groans. “I’m talking to Simon.”

“I’m sure Simon has to go eat dinner too. Don’t you, Simon?”

As if on cue, the garage door rattles from downstairs, signaling his father’s return home. “Yes, ma’am,” Simon answers.

She chuckles. “Please, call me Daphne.”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll come eat. But can Simon sleep over tomorrow? He hasn’t seen _Doctor Who._ ” His tone makes it clear that this should horrify Daphne, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“If his parents are okay with it, I don’t see why not. But I’ll have to ask your father.”

“Wicked. Simon?” Baz turns to him.

“I’ll ask my dad tonight.” It’s not a complete lie; he _will_ ask him, if he’s in a good mood. And sober.

“Well, I hope you can come over, Simon,” Daphne says. “We’d love to have you.”

“Thank you.”

“Bye, Simon,” Baz says, his tone not unfriendly as he strides toward the door.

“Bye.”

Simon steps away from the window, and the curtain swishes into place, concealing Baz from view.

* * *

 

BAZ

Baz barely touches the chicken on his plate, poking halfheartedly at it with his as he lets his mind wander.

He thinks it’s odd that, with all the changes happening in his life, he’d be thinking about Simon’s nightmare before anything else. But that’s where his mind goes first, so he stares out the window and contemplates the incident.

What could Simon have been dreaming about that made him wake up screaming and leave him crying for nearly half an hour? Does he have nightmares all the time? If he does, does anyone else know? Why didn’t his dad come in to check on him, if Baz heard the scream across the divide between their houses? Sure, both their windows were open -- summer heat is a nightmare, so just about everyone sleeps with their windows open to tempt a little breeze in -- but it was a loud scream, and Baz would be surprised that his own dad didn’t come running if he didn’t know for a fact that both he and Daphne sleep like the dead. (Fiona wears headphones to bed. She thinks she’s punk.) (It’s a testament to how loud Baz was in unpacking last night that Daphne actually woke up enough to come into his room and tell him to go to bed.)

“Malcolm, dear, did you know that Simon and Basilton’s bedroom windows face each other?” Daphne asks, pulling Baz from his thoughts.

Baz’s father pauses, spaghetti-laden fork halfway to his mouth. “Really? That’s odd. Do you think Fiona should switch rooms with him?”  
“No!” Baz shouts, before anyone else can reply. Everyone turns to look at him.

“I mean,” he continues, “no, it’s fine. Besides, I kind of like being able to talk to Simon through the windows. It’s like a secret spy network.”

Baz’s father sets his fork down completely. “Baz, there are...people in this world. Bad people. They would like nothing more than to take advantage of vulnerable little boys like yourself.”

Baz bristles in irritation, lips pulling back into a sneer. “I’m not a _vulnerable little boy._ I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, really?” Daphne asks, cleaning up a bit of sauce that Mordelia, Baz’s two-year-old half-sister, spilled on the table. “You can hold down a nine-to-five job and pay taxes?”

He shoots her a glare. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Besides, Simon’s not bad. You’ve met him, Daphne. You said yourself he’s pretty well-mannered.”

“It’s not Simon I’m worried about,” she says ominously.

“Well, who else could it be? The only other person who lives there is his father, and what’s he going to do to me? I know all the rules. I keep my curtains closed when I change clothes. I sleep with the window locked.” That last part isn’t true, but they don’t need to know that. Nothing’s going to happen.

Daphne looks unconvinced, but Baz’s father nods, as if to say that’s good enough for him, and picks up his fork again.

“You’ll tell us if you feel unsafe, right, Baz?” he asks through a mouthful of pasta.

Baz nods.

“I’m not switching rooms, anyway,” Fiona adds. “I just finished decorating, and I don’t want to have to redo everything.”

“Fiona,” Baz’s father says, swallowing hard, “that’s really not up to you,”

“Isn’t it?” Fiona bites back savagely. “I pay rent. Not to mention I babysit for free all the time.”

The two continue arguing over Daphne’s and Mordelia’s heads, giving Baz the perfect opportunity to go back to his dinner and his thoughts.

* * *

 

SIMON

“Hey, sport,” Simon’s father says when Simon comes running down the stairs. “How was your day?”

“It was fine, sir,” Simon replies cordially. “How was yours?”

“Eh, nothing special.” He drops the takeaway bags and his briefcase on the dining room table, then heads back to the kitchen to retrieve plates, utensils, and drinks -- milk for Simon, a beer for himself. “So,” he says over his shoulder, large hands shuffling things around in the cabinet. “I saw you holding hands with that boy yesterday.”

“Er… yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, he asked me to take him to the park.”

His father waits until he’s back in the dining room, scooping food onto their plates, to speak. “Sport, you know I love you, but there are certain things I just won’t tolerate, and behavior like that is one of them. Do you want to be made fun of for being a fag, son?”

“...No, sir.”

“Good. So no more holding hands with other boys, you got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Attaboy.” He lifts the finished plates and hands one to Simon. “Now, what d’you say we watch TV while we eat?”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to use screens today, sir.”

His father thinks for a moment. “Ah, it’s fine. You seem to have learned your lesson. What time are you supposed to be home?”

“Sundown, sir, and no later.”

“Good.” He ruffles Simon’s hair as he passes him on the way to the living room. “Come on.”

They settle on the couch and flip through the channels for a while, watching ten minutes of this and five of that, before they find the beginning of _Men in Black_. Simon watches the movie, not really caring about what’s happening on screen so much as the fact that he’s spending time with his father, and he’s not being yelled at. The smell of alcohol still lingers, but Simon can pretend it’s not there if he doesn’t think about it. He’s happy.

He wonders what would happen if he asked his dad about the sleepover at Baz’s.

Simon looks over at his father. Sure, he’s had a beer, but he’s not angry, not drunk, not angry _and_ drunk. Now looks like the best chance he’s going to get - not that he expects good results anyway, but he _really_ wants to have a sleepover for once.

He waits until a commercial break before he brings it up.

“Excuse me, sir?”

His father grunts to show he’s listening.

“Sir, my friend Baz - he lives next door - invited me to a sleepover at his house tomorrow. Can I go?”

“Hmm… Are his parents going to be there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does he have any other family there?”

“An older sister, sir, I think. Or an aunt.”

“Let me think on it.”

Simon feels hope swell in his chest. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no, either. Despite his best efforts, he fidgets through the rest of the movie, bouncing his leg until his father lays a hand on it to stop him.

At the end of the movie, his father shuts off the TV and turns to face him.

“Simon, I think I’m going to let you go to the sleepover.”

Simon blinks in surprise, then lets his smile spread slowly across his face. He’s buzzing in his seat, and his father must see it, because he holds up a hand.

“Not so fast, sport. There’s something I want to be clear about first. You live under my roof, so you need to follow my rules. They’re only there to protect you. That means when I say you have to be home by sundown, you have to be home by sundown, no arguing. When I tell you to pick up the house, you need to pick up the house. When I say you can’t hold hands with other boys, you can’t hold hands with other boys. It’s for your own good. So the next time you break one of my rules, your punishment will be a lot worse than being grounded for a day, okay?”

Simon swallows around the nervous lump in his throat and nods.

“Good boy. Now, I want to see you before you head over to your friend’s house tomorrow, okay? Don’t leave until I get home from work.” Simon nods, and his father leans over and ruffles his curly hair again. “Now, I’m going to bed. You take care of the dishes and do the same. Goodnight, Simon.” He pulls Simon into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of his head. “Love you, son.”

“I love you too, sir.”


	6. I Wanna Sleep Next To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cutesy BFF scenes because why not

BAZ

By evening the next day, Baz has gotten most of his boxes unpacked. The house is starting to feel less like a waypoint and more like a home, and to make things better, Simon should be coming over to watch  _ Doctor Who _ right about… 

_ Ding-dong! _

Now.

Baz dashes down the stairs, so excited he’s practically flying. “I’ve got it!” he calls to the house at large.

When he flings open the door, Simon is standing there, backpack over his shoulders, pillow in his hands, smile on his face.

“Is that Simon?” Daphne calls from the kitchen. “Tell him he’s just in time for dinner!”

“Come on,” Baz says, motioning Simon inside. “You can drop your stuff in my room.”

* * *

 

Dinner was an...interesting experience.

Aunt Fiona came downstairs, took one look at Simon, and said, “I don’t see what you’re so worried about, Daphne. He looks harmless enough.”

Simon raised an eyebrow at Baz, asking for an explanation, but Baz just shook his head, the message as clear as he could make it:  _ I’ll tell you later. _

The meal was delicious, as usual; for all her faults and the whole not-being-his-mother thing, Daphne is one hell of a cook. Tonight, it was chicken and rice, baked together with corn and cheese, with a side of cubed and spiced potatoes.

As they ate, Daphne tried to make conversation with Simon, asking about school, his friends, his home life, but no one else seemed to talk much, and eventually she dropped it.

After the meal was over, Baz led Simon upstairs to his bedroom, where they settled onto Baz’s bed to watch  _ Doctor Who. _

Simon is immediately staring at the screen, transfixed by the Doctor’s antics and clenching the blanket at all of the tense moments. Every time something ridiculous happens, raucous laughter bubbles out of him, almost like he can’t control it.

Baz, on the other hand, has been unpacking all day and finds himself oddly worn out. He falls asleep by the end of the second episode, much to Simon’s chagrin.

“Come on, Baz, you can’t fall asleep!” he hisses, shaking Baz’s shoulder. “This is the best part!”

“You said that about the last part,” Baz mutters. “I’m sleepy. And I’ve seen this before.”

Simon shoves Baz off the bed; he lands on the hardwood with a  _ whoof _ and a grunt of pain.

“What was that for?” he asks, irritated.

“Falling asleep, obviously.”

Baz rolls his eyes, gets to his feet, and throws his whole weight onto Simon’s legs. They both cry out at the same time; Simon is one bony kid, and Baz isn’t too heavy, but he had a decent amount of force behind him.

“Why are your shins so painful?” Baz complains.

“I play football with you all the time, Baz. The entire game is centred around kicking stuff.”

“We’ve literally known each other for two days. And you suck at football.”

Simon shrugs. Baz is quickly learning that half of his sentences are shrugs.

Baz groans but doesn’t move, content to bug Simon by keeping him pinned.

Of course, that plan falls on its face when Simon throws Baz off with one sudden move of his legs, and for the second time in as many minutes, Baz finds himself sprawled on his hardwood floor.

They fall asleep around ten: Baz in his bed, Simon on an air mattress Daphne brought up sometime during episode three.

* * *

 

He wakes to Simon screaming on the floor.

He’s having another nightmare - that much is obvious - but he’s not waking up on his own. Last time, Baz noticed, his own screaming snapped him out of it, but not tonight.

Baz jumps out of bed and crouches next to Simon, shaking his arm.

“Simon, wake up. You’re going to rouse the whole neighbourhood.”

He says it over and over, trying to get him to at least  _ shut up  _ before the neighbours call the cops.

It takes a minute, but eventually Simon stops screaming and he’s up like a shot, eyes wide and panicked.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Baz says soothingly, rubbing Simon’s back. He vaguely remembers his mother doing that when he’d have nightmares, and it helped a lot. “It was just a dream. You’re safe.”

He murmurs like that, pointless little phrases in the most calming voice he can manage, until Simon’s rigid posture relaxes and his breathing evens out.

“Better?” Baz asks. Simon nods. He lies back down, and Baz starts to make his way to his own bed, but Simon grabs his wrist.

“Could you… Could you stay with me?” he asks. He’s blushing hard, tears shining in his eyes, and Baz just knows there’s no way he can say no. So, without a word, he slides onto the air mattress next to Simon, and they slowly drift back to sleep, Baz holding Simon’s hand for comfort.

* * *

 

SIMON

He wakes in the morning, disoriented. He’s fairly certain he remembers his bed being higher than this, and he doesn’t know why there’s another person curled around him, their fingers intertwined.

It takes him a minute to come back to himself, to remember who he is and where he is and what he’s doing… and he jerks his hand away from Baz’s immediately, cradling it to his chest protectively. If his father found out…

His stomach rumbles, pulling him back to the present, reminding him of the fact that he’s  _ starving. _

He throws his blankets aside and stumbles downstairs, wincing at every creak of the floorboards as he reaches the kitchen. Daphne is already up and with Mordelia, balancing her on her hip as she flicks through a recipe book.

“Oh, good morning, Simon. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Simon says politely, clasping his hands behind his back, doing his best to stand out of her way. “Sorry, Baz is still sleeping and I was just going to get some water.”

On cue, his stomach rumbles loudly. Even Mordelia stares at him.

“Nonsense, you don’t need to wait for him to have breakfast. I’ll make you something. What would you like?”

“Oh, er. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Actually,” she says, closing the recipe book and settling Mordelia in her high chair, “I can’t decide. What’s your favorite breakfast food?”

“Scones,” Simon replies before he can stop himself. “I mean… I like scones, if that’s okay.”

“That’s perfect. I’m actually in the mood for scones myself. How do sour cherry scones sound?”

“Er... “ Simon mutters, trying to hide the fact that he’s never tried one before. “Fine, I guess.”

“Would you prefer something else?”

“No! I mean, no. Sour cherry scones sound great.”

“Have a seat, then,” Daphne tells him, pulling an apron from a drawer next to the stove. “I’ll whip up a batch for us.”

They chat amicably while Daphne mixes the batter, giving Simon cherries and a glass of water to snack on while he waits. Eventually, Simon finds himself making funny faces at Mordelia, who shrieks with laughter. Daphne smiles fondly as she puts the scones in the oven and washes the dishes.

“Why don’t you go wake Baz up?” she suggests after a while. “These should be done in a couple of minutes.”

Simon nods and slides off of the stool, plodding carefully back up the stairs, doing his best to stop the floorboards from creaking, but no use. The houses in this development are fairly new, but they must’ve done the floors wrong, because it’s impossible to traverse them silently.

When he reaches Baz’s room, the sight that greets him is this: Baz, curled up into a ball under the blankets, arm stretching out across the space where Simon had been a while before, almost like he was reaching for him.

_ He looks so peaceful, _ Simon thinks.  _ It’d be a shame to wake him up… _

Carefully, he gets down on his hands and knees and puts his mouth right next to Baz’s ear. Then, at the same moment as he starts tickling Baz, he screams, “BOO!”

Baz jumps, wide-eyed and shrieking with laughter and shoving at Simon’s hands. “Quit it!” he cries.

They wrestle for a moment, until they hear Daphne call up the stairs. “Boys! Breakfast!”

Breathless with laughter, Simon lets Baz go, sitting back on his heels. “Come on,” he says, offering Baz a hand up. “Daphne made scones.”

After breakfast -- during which Baz recounted the tale of Simon waking him up as though it were a horror story -- they get dressed and go out -- Simon stuffing several scones in his pockets for later -- to look for adventure. They chase each other through the park and climb on top of the monkey bars to look at the ground from up high. They pretend the floor is lava and swing high enough to punch holes in the clouds and Baz rolls his eyes as Simon pets every dog they see. They’re so involved in their games they actually forget to eat lunch -- no easy feat, as Simon is pretty much constantly ruled by his stomach.

By the time they head home, the sun is nearing the horizon. Baz and Simon eat a very healthy dinner of chips and Jell-O (Fiona’s idea), then wash it down with ice cream and orange juice.

Eventually, sunset arrives, and Simon has to go home. He and Baz part ways on the Pitches’ front porch, in agreement that they should do this again soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, by this point, I've pretty much got everything but the epilogue written and ready, so I'm thinking I'll be posting on Mondays and Fridays. That said, I'm an indecisive mess, so that may be subject to change. Y'all ready to ride this angst train as far as it'll go? 'Cause this is gonna be a hell of a ride.


	7. Only Fools Do What I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the angst begin.

SIMON

He sneaks back into the house the next afternoon, having spent all morning playing video games -- Digimon 4, Street Fighter III: Third Strike, and Bionicle: Maze of Shadows -- at Baz’s house. Without permission. He knows he should’ve asked, but his father doesn’t like to be disturbed at work, and he couldn’t stand just sitting alone at home all day again.

With the garage door closed, it’s impossible to gauge from outside whether his father is inside, waiting to scold him. He hears nothing, which isn’t particularly reassuring. But he has to go inside either way.

Tentatively, he opens the front door. Nothing.

He creeps down the hall to check the kitchen and living room. Empty.

Up the stairs, to his father’s room. Nada.

The bathroom. The game room. The attic. All deserted.

Simon checks the garage; the car is gone.

His father isn’t home.

Laughing with relief, Simon flops onto his bed and enjoys his solitude. He can do anything. Watch telly, make something to eat, play with Baz. Whatever he likes.

He skips downstairs, humming happily to himself. It’s Baz’s song, the one from  _ Doctor Who. _

He sprawls out on the couch and picks up the remote, flipping through the channels on the telly before settling on a movie about some wizards living in a great big castle of a school. He watches for a little while, daydreaming about what it would be like to live somewhere like that, then realizes he’s hungry and goes to forage for food.

He’s in luck; his father must have gone grocery shopping while he was at Baz’s yesterday, because the cupboards are fully stocked. Simon grabs a box of mac-and-cheese and sets to work preparing it, making a colossal mess in the process and burning himself a few times, but eventually succeeding.

He’s just sitting down to eat it in front of the telly when the sound of the garage door rumbling open echoes through the house.

As fast as he can, Simon turns off the telly, carries his bowl into the kitchen, leaves it on the counter, and drags a stool from the island in front of the sink.

The door has rumbled closed and Simon’s father is thumping down the hallway by the time Simon has rounded up all of the dishes and clambered onto the stool to wash them

“Jesus, kid, I leave you home alone for a day and you blow up the kitchen!” his father jokes. “Why are you doing the dishes while you’ve got food to eat? It’ll be cold by the time you’re done.”

Simon feels all the tension drain out of his shoulders. He shuts off the water and hops down from the stool, drying his hands on his worn-out jeans. “I don’t know, sir,” he says, smiling sheepishly.

“Come on, let’s watch something.” His father drops his briefcase and coat on the island and dumps the rest of the mac-and-cheese into a bowl for himself. Simon follows him into the living room, his own bowl back in his hands, and settles next to him on the couch.

* * *

 

Of course, his luck couldn’t hold.

He’s woken harshly at two AM by his father slamming his door open, all bloodshot eyes and beer-stained sweats. He’s scared, because this never happens. His father never comes to check on him after he’s gone to bed -- he hasn’t for years. What could he have done wrong? He thought the night went fine-

The dishes.

He forgot to do the dishes.

His father is crossing the room, and before he knows it his father is grasping his wrist painfully tightly and pulling him out of bed, eyes wild and furious. He kneels down to look Simon in the eye, his face inches away, smelling so much like a pub that he has to fight the urge to gag.

“You think,” his father whispers dangerously, “that you can come into  _ my  _ house, eat  _ my  _ food, which I so grate-” he burps, and a wave of foul-smelling breath washes over Simon “-graciously bought for you, and  _ not clean up after yourself? _ ”

Simon’s voice squeaks as he opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, a large, calloused hand collides with his face, snapping his head to the side. Both Simon and David gasp, and as Simon stands frozen, David drops his wrist and stumbles backwards, sitting down hard on the wooden floor, suddenly much more sober than he was a moment ago.

“Simon,” he starts, “I-”

A single tear leaks from the corner of Simon’s eye, and that is too much for David. He staggers to his feet and, tearing his gaze away from his son, stumbles out of the room and down the stairs. A few moments later, Simon hears the rattle of the garage door as it opens and closes, unleashing his father into the night.

* * *

 

DAVID

He doesn’t remember walking downstairs. He doesn’t remember clambering into his Jeep and driving to the nearest pub. He doesn’t remember realizing that he probably shouldn’t be driving like this, or being unable to bring himself to care. He doesn’t remember thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he did crash the car and die. Maybe a foster family would be better for Simon than he would.

He doesn’t remember staggering inside, slumping onto a stool, and downing his fifth beer of the day, stomach twisting as he thinks of how like his father he’s become.

He does remember dashing off a barely coherent text to his assistant, saying that he wouldn’t be coming into work the next day. He remembers staring down at his hands for an hour straight. He remembers losing himself in memories of his own childhood, when a different pair of hands struck a different little boy, over and over and over again. He remembers thinking about how that little boy grew up and began to fight back. He remembers the harsh words thrown like knives and the hands racing toward him, not as big as they used to be. He remembers storming out, screen door crashing against the wall behind him. He remembers how he left those hands behind, left the man they belonged to, left the woman who pretended not to see.

He remembers torturing himself with what Lucy would say if she could see him now.

She’d be furious, he knows. She would take Simon away, send him to stay with Martin and Mitali until she could sort him out. Hell, if she were still here, she’d have gone there and back by now. She’d be waiting at home, cleaning up his mess to keep her hands from shaking.

He feels the bile rising up in the back of his throat, and braces himself against the bar, struggling to his feet. Every step is a battle, the world slipping and sliding back and forth around him, and he only gets a few paces in the general direction of the bathroom before the floor comes racing up to meet him. He only has time to think ponderously that he should probably try to catch himself before the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil cackling*


	8. The Stars Are Falling, Ma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no solid update schedule, apparently. Yes, twice a week, but last week I posted chapters on Monday and Tuesday and then not until today for some reason. And to forewarn you, next week, I'm going to New York to visit my cousin and her family, and I'm not bringing my laptop because there's a pink sticker on the back that says "Fuck Nope" in cursive, so I'll be posting two chapters on Monday the 1st and then nothing until Wednesday the 10th. There's... probably a way to schedule chapters, but I don't know how to do that, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Anyway, have some angst!

SIMON

When he wakes up the next morning, his cheek stings like mad, but there’s no sign of his father.

Simon sits up and looks towards the window, grateful that he apparently closed the curtains before he went to bed last night. He doesn’t need Baz asking questions right now.

Quietly, just in case his father came home while he was asleep, he creeps out of his bedroom and across the hall to the bathroom. He closes the door, flicks on the light, and gasps: taking up almost the entire right side of his face is a vibrant red-and-purple bruise roughly the shape of a handprint. Gingerly, he raises a hand to poke at it, jerking his hand away with a hiss at the spike of pain that shot through him.

Well, there go his chances of seeing Baz today. It looks like he’s going to be stuck at home until the bruise goes away.

He tiptoes down the stairs to search the house for signs of his father. Finding none, he hauls himself to the sink and sets about washing the dishes that started this whole mess.

* * *

 

DAVID

He wakes up twelve hours later in a too-bright holding cell with a pounding headache and a shattered nose.

He’s lying on his side on a cold metal bench, suit hopelessly wrinkled, vomit crusted on his chin, as well as all down his front. The room, he discovers as his eyes adjust to the violence of the fluorescent lights, is small and drab, with concrete floors and a metal toilet and sink in the corner. On the floor, leaning against the opposite wall, is a gray-bearded man with bloodied knuckles and a gash on his cheek, snoring deeply.

Carefully, trying not to aggravate his headache, he eases himself into a sitting position. The police officer on duty sees that he’s awake and walks over to the cell door, keys jangling against her hip.

“David Salisbury?” she asks. He nods slowly.

She slots a key into the cell door and unlocks it, opening it for him. “Come with me.”

It takes him a moment to get to his feet, but eventually he’s able to cross the cell and follow her to a desk down the hall. She gestures for him to take a seat in the chair opposite her own, and he does so gratefully. As she settles herself in her own chair, he says that her name tag reads “Officer Reynolds”.

“Mr. Salisbury, this is your first offence -- and really, all you did was pass out at a pub and throw up on yourself -- so I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. But,” she adds, before he can start to look too relieved, “I’m going to recommend that you visit an AA meeting. My records show that you have a son -- an eight-year-old boy named Simon, yes?” He nods. “Don’t you want to be the best father you can be? I see a lot of guys just like you come in here -- and I see a lot of sons of guys like you come in here as well. You don’t want your son to go down this road, do you? Think about quitting for him.”

Officer Reynolds slides a bag of his personal effects and a brochure across the desk towards him. “This is a local group that meets twice a week. If I were you, I’d think about going.” And with that, she stands from her desk and beckons him to follow her out.

* * *

 

SIMON

He spends most of the day up in his room, waiting for his father to get home and trying to keep his mind off of his smarting cheek. When his stomach rumbles, he steals downstairs to grab a granola bar or a handful of cereal before racing back up to his room.

He knows Baz is home. He can hear his violin through the curtain -- he’s playing the _Doctor Who_ theme again; whether he’s actually practicing it or trying to get Simon to talk to him, he doesn’t know -- but he doesn’t dare say hi. Baz will ask too many questions, and Simon doesn’t know what to tell him -- that his father hit him in a drunken rage?

As an eight-year-old, he may be in the dark about a lot of things, but he knows he can’t tell anyone about this. They’ll take him away from his father -- and, really, it was a one-time thing. There’s no reason it will happen again. As long as Simon keeps his head down, cleans up after himself, and stays out of his father’s way, everything will be fine, right?

(God, he hopes so.)

It’s not until around 5:30 that the garage door rattles open, signaling that Simon’s father has returned. Immediately, he tenses up, casting around for a place to hide. He thinks of crawling under the bed, but -- no. There wouldn’t be anything to keep his father from seeing him immediately. He could try the closet, but he can just imagine how that would go: his father, opening the closet door and seeing Simon, shivering and scared. His father, pulling him from the closet and yelling at him.

His father, hitting him again.

The garage door rattles closed. Simon lies back down and tries to pretend to be involved in the book he hasn’t read a word of for the last two hours. He’s not even sure what it’s about.

Heavy footsteps go _thump, thump, thump_ up the stairs. He listens with bated breath as his father walks along the hallway, pauses outside his door… and, after what feels like an eternity, continues down the hall. A few minutes later, Simon hears the shower running.

“Simon?” a deep voice asks from the other side of the door. “Can I talk to you?”

Simon’s heart sits in his throat, his knees pulled up to his chest under the thin blanket. He has thicker blankets, but they’ve all been kicked to the foot of his bed in an attempt to ward off the heat. He can’t make himself speak.

Fortunately, his father seems to decide that talking through the door will be easier for both of them.

“I… I know you’re probably mad at me right now. Frankly, that makes sense. What I did was… wrong. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you so harshly over a few dishes, and I’m sorry. It… No father ever has a reason to treat his son like that.

“I’m leaving a tube of Neosporin out here for you, and some McDonald’s as well, for your dinner. If you rub the cream gently into your cheek, it should help it heal. I… I love you, son.”

And as his father’s footsteps retreat back down the hall, Simon buries his face in his knees and cries.


	9. Sometimes Living's Too Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up my dudes I have no impulse control!!!

BAZ

Baz doesn’t see anything more of Simon until late the next afternoon.

He’s in his bedroom again, playing the  _ Doctor Who _ theme next to the open window in the hopes that it’ll get Simon to pull back his curtain and say hello. Finally, he does -- but the sight of him startles Baz so badly he stops playing abruptly and almost drops his violin.

Spread across Simon’s left cheek is a mottled black-and-blue bruise. Just looking at it makes Baz inhale sharply out of sympathy for his pain.

“Jesus, Simon,” he breathes. “What happened to you?”

Simon smiles sheepishly. “I… kinda fell down the stairs. I’m okay,” he adds hurriedly, “it was only a couple of steps up, but… I still landed on my face pretty hard.”

Baz sets his violin down and leans as far out the window as he can without breaking the screen. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t hurt as much now. My dad gave me some cream to help with it.” He holds up a tube of Neosporin, so comically large Baz has to bite back a laugh.

“Well… do you want to come play video games?”

Simon glances back at his bedroom door. “I can’t. I think my dad will be home soon, and he likes it if we eat dinner together. Maybe tomorrow?”

Baz nods. “Sounds good. Don’t forget, we still have a bunch more stages of Street Fighter III for me to cream you on,” he teases.

“Oh, you’re on!” Simon replies, grinning.

They both hear it when the garage door rattles open below Simon, heralding his father’s return. Simon looks over his shoulder toward the door, then turns back to Baz.

“I should… probably go. See you later?”

“Yeah. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The curtain falls from Simon’s grasp, and Baz is left with his hands pressed against a window screen, wondering just how clumsy you have to be to fall down the stairs and land on your face that hard.

* * *

 

SIMON

He may have gotten a free pass yesterday because of what happened with his father, but he knows well enough that his father wants them to have dinner together as often as possible. As a family. Besides, it’s Friday. Friday is pizza night.

So, as much as he’d rather stay up in his room and sneak down for food later, he makes his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

His father is standing at the counter, his back to Simon, as he sets pepperoni pizza slices practically dripping with melted cheese onto plates for them. Simon stands, back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind him, and says softly, “Hello, sir.”

Simon’s father glances over his shoulder, then does a double take and turns around entirely. “Oh, Simon…” he breathes. He takes a step towards Simon, who involuntarily jerks backwards, pressing himself against the counter. His father freezes.

“Simon, I… I am so sorry. There’s no excuse for what I did to you. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

_ No.  _ “Yes, sir.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s so good to hear, son.” He kneels down on the floor. “Can I have a hug?”

_ No! _ “Yes, sir.”

His father spreads his arms wide, and Simon has no choice but to walk forward and let his father enclose him in his too-tight grasp. Thankfully, his arms are pinned to his sides, so even if he wanted to hug back, he can’t.

“I love you, son,” his father whispers.

“I love you too, sir.” Simon replies.

His father lets him go and puts his hands on his shoulders, holding him at arm’s length so he can look him in the eye. “Tell you what,” he says. “How about we take tomorrow and just watch telly? Just you and me, bud. We can eat as much junk food as you want, and we can watch whatever you want. Sound good?”

_ No, no, no.  _ “Actually, sir, I…”

His father’s face falls, and he trails off. He looks so hopelessly crushed. Simon can’t bring himself to say no.

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

 

He spends all of Saturday completely on edge, terrified to even move without permission. His father keeps encouraging him to choose something to watch, but he can’t make up his mind about what would make his father happiest, so eventually he just settles on the football game.

“You want to watch this?” his father asks.

Simon nods. “Yes, sir.”

Things are alright for the first few hours or so, but around lunchtime, his father gets up from the couch and comes back with a beer in his hand. Simon tries not to look too afraid as he cracks it open and takes a long sip, like he’s been waiting a while for this.

They spend the rest of the afternoon that way, on opposite ends of the couch. Simon’s father works his way through that beer, and then another, and a third after that. He’s on his fourth by the time he lunges forward to reach for a chip from the bowl on the coffee table, and stops short when he sees the way Simon tenses up in the corner of his eye. He turns his bloodshot, watery gaze on him.

“For god’s sake, boy, quit bein’ so damn scared of me,” he says gruffly, words slurring a bit. “I ain’t near-” he burps “nearly as bad to you as my pop was to me. But I tell ya-” and at this he leans forward, putting his face so uncomfortably close to Simon’s that he has to hold his breath to keep from gagging on the pungent odor of alcohol. “-if you keep actin’ all scared of me, I’m gonna give you somethin’ to be scared of.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Simon can’t keep the squeak out of his voice. He casts his gaze down at the floor.

Simon’s father roughly grabs his chin and turns him back towards him. “Fuck’s sake, boy, what did I just say?  _ What did I just say? _ ”

“Y-you said to stop being s-scared of you, s-sir.”

Out of nowhere, a solid fist collides with his stomach, and Simon doubles over, gasping.

“ _ What the fuck d’you think ‘quit bein’ scared of me’ means?! _ ” he roars. “ _ D’you think it means ‘squeak like a little girl,’ you fuckin’ fairy?! Is that it?! _ ”

“N-no, sir,” Simon chokes out, arms wrapped around his abdomen.  
He’s got Simon by the hair now, and he’s jerking his head up until he’s staring  him in the eyes. There’s an animalistic rage there that Simon doesn’t recognize. It doesn’t even look like his father anymore.

“ _ What did you say?! _ ”

“N-no, sir!” he gasps, louder this time, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

His father lets go of his hair and stands up, swaying slightly. “S’what I thought. If I catch you jumpin’ like that again, boy, I’m gonna give you a reason to be scared.”

And with that, he stalks off toward the stairs, leaving his son to hold his stomach and sob quietly on the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments I will sell you my soul for validation


	10. We're Getting Deeper In This Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil cackling in the distance*

BAZ

By Sunday, Baz has gotten tired of waiting to hear from Simon about when they’re going to hang out next, so he decides to head over to his house and ask in person, rather than through a window screen.

So, just after breakfast, Baz stalks down his front walk and back up Simon’s, taking a deep breath before hammering on the door.

Almost immediately, it’s ripped open, and he’s face-to-face with Simon, whose bruise is now beginning to turn a delightful shade of purple-green. “Shhhh!” he hisses angrily. “My dad’s still asleep.”

“Oh,” Baz replies, feeling sheepish. “Sorry.”

“What’s up?” Simon asks in a whisper.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to play video games or watch  _ Doctor Who _ or something.”

“Oh. Er…” He glances over his shoulder at the darkened house. Almost unconsciously, his arm curls protectively around his abdomen. “Yeah, okay. Let me just write a note to my dad. Wait here.”

Simon closes the door in Baz’s face. He leans back against the railing and taps his foot to an invisible beat. He heard a new song last night, and he wants to see if he can learn to play it, but it’s kinda hard to look up classical songs because you can’t really get very far by typing “there was a really good fast bit with the violin”.

After a few minutes of Baz humming what he can remember of the song to himself, Simon reappears, mildly out of breath, and now wearing a mildly ratty pair of sneakers. “Okay,” he huffs, “I’m ready.”

* * *

 

Daphne gasps sharply when she sees Simon.

“Oh, my gosh!” She immediately sets Mordelia down in her high chair and rushes over to fuss over him. “What happened to you?”

“He fell down the stairs,” Baz pipes up.

“Only a couple of steps,” Simon assures her. “I just lost my balance is all. It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.”

At that moment, Daphne prods his cheek gently, and he winces. “Mm-hmm,” she says, eyebrows raised. “Doesn’t hurt that much, huh? Well, at least take an ice pack to help with the healing, dear.”

“That’s really not-” Simon starts, but she’s already filling a plastic bag with ice and wrapping it in a towel for him. “Er, thanks, Mrs. Grimm-Pitch.”

“Call me Daphne, Simon. And you’re quite welcome. Now, hold that on your bruise in 10 minute intervals, okay?”

“Okay.” Daphne turns back to Mordelia and busies herself with getting her breakfast.

“So,  _ Doctor Who _ ?” Baz asks.

Simon nods.

* * *

 

They make it through another three episodes before Daphne calls them down for lunch. Today, she’s made them grilled cheese sandwiches with a small cup of tomato soup each. Simon looks like his eyes are going to pop out of his head at the sight of the meal, and Baz gets the feeling his dad doesn’t cook all that much.

As they eat, Daphne tells Baz all about the school supplies she’s going to pick up this afternoon. “Basilton, honey, I’m going to need you to come with me so you can choose things you’ll like. Simon, would you like to come too?”

Simon starts to nod earnestly, but right then, a harsh knock sounds at the door, more of a hammering than anything else.

“Malcolm, would you get that?” Daphne calls in the direction of the living room, and after a moment, Baz’s father shuffles past, still in his bathrobe and pajamas despite the lateness of the hour.

“Oh, hello,” Baz hears distantly, “you must be Simon’s father.”

Simon freezes mid-chew, eyes wide.

“Yes, I’m looking for my son,” a deep voice says. “Is he here?”

“Why, yes, he and Basilton are just having lunch now- Oh! Do come in, I guess.” Baz’s father doesn’t say that last bit so much as snap it.

Faster than he can blink, Simon is suddenly sitting perfectly straight, hands folded in his lap, his half-eaten sandwich on his plate, mouth empty. How he managed to chew and swallow that quickly, Baz doesn’t know. A moment later, a broad-shouldered man in a black suit and tie fills their kitchen doorway. He looks like an older version of Simon, from the bronze curls to the lightning-blue eyes, all the way down to the freckles on his nose.

“Simon. We’re going home.” Nothing about it is phrased as a question or leaves room for argument.

“Surely there’s time for him to finish his lunch-” Daphne starts, but Mr. Salisbury cuts her off.

“Madam, thank you very much for watching my son and offering him food, but it is time for us to be going now.” He grabs Simon’s wrist a little too tightly and pulls him from the stool. “Come on, get your shoes.”

Obediently, Simon walks toward the entryway, his father at his heels, propelling him along with a hand on his shoulder.

“Do come again,” Baz’s father says dryly, closing the door behind them none too gently.

“Well, that was rather unnecessary,” Daphne comments as Baz’s father walks back into the room.

“You’re telling me. He just pushed straight past me! He didn’t wait for an invitation at all!”

“Guess we know he’s not a vampire,” Baz jokes. They both raise their eyebrows at him.

“Oh, poor dear,” Daphne says pensively, clearing Simon’s plate away. “I do hope he didn’t get into too much trouble for being here.”

* * *

 

SIMON

Unfortunately, in David Salisbury’s eyes, getting into trouble seemed to be all Simon was capable of.

The moment he had his shoes on, Simon’s father grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of the Grimm-Pitch house, marching him down the path and right back up their own. Thankfully, he waited until the front door was closed behind them to begin his lecture, but that was probably just so none of the neighbours would see.

“You sneaky little wretch!” he growled, face close enough to Simon’s that he could smell the alcohol on his breath even this early in the day. “Do you have any idea how it makes me look for you to run off to their house every chance you get?! You  _ know _ you aren’t to leave the house without permission, and  _ leaving a note _ -” he waves the note Simon left on the kitchen counter in his face “-is  _ not _ the same thing as asking for permission! You’re going to make it look like -- like I don’t  _ feed _ you or take care of you at all! You’re making me look like an incompetent father!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Simon replied in a small voice, but his father wasn’t done.

“Not to mention you going out when you look like that. Those people are going to think I abuse you!”

Simon knows he shouldn’t say anything. He knows this isn’t going to go well for him. He knows he should just keep his mouth shut and wait for his father to be done, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Well, you have hit me twice in the last week,” he points out, then immediately regrets it.

His father stares down at him with fury in his eyes. “Oh, poor widdle baby Simon,” he mocks, “being hit by his father! You listen to me, young man, when I was your age, being hit twice a week was a  _ privilege! _ ” He grabs the front of Simon’s shirt and pulls him close, the smell of beer threatening to choke Simon again. “If you’re going to whine about me beating you, I’ll  _ give  _ you something to whine about!”

He hits him in the stomach again, right where the new bruise has formed, hard enough that he doubles over, breathless. Before he has a chance to recover, his father puts a boot-clad foot in his back, flattening him to the floor, and delivers a harsh kick to his side.

Simon, crying now, curls himself into a ball. “I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

His father hauls him to his feet by the back of his shirt and pulls his hair to make him look him in the eye. “‘I’m sorry,’  _ what? _ ” he asks, rage dripping from his every word.

“I’m sorry, sir!” Simon chokes out, breathless now from crying and from the pain in his abdomen.

His father picks him up, throws him roughly over his shoulder, and marches up the staircase on surprisingly steady feet. “DON’T - CRY - UNLESS - YOU - WANT - SOMETHING - TO - CRY - ABOUT!” he shouts, each word accompanied by a harsh spank.

Simon’s apologies are now incoherent through the thickness of his tears and his cries of pain. His father shoves open his bedroom door and dumps Simon unceremoniously onto the hard wooden flooring, where he lands in a heap.

“And don’t come out until you’ve learned your lesson!” he snaps, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

 

BAZ

Baz returns to his bedroom a few hours later, laden down with packages and bags that Daphne deemed necessary for his new school year, including a new backpack, a new pencil case (fully stocked), several notebooks, a calculator, and half a dozen new mass-produced T-shirts (to help him “fit in,” she said).

He’s just finished putting everything away when he hears the scrape of hooks on a curtain rod from behind him. Turning, he sees Simon, looking significantly more downtrodden than he was this morning. His eyes are rimmed with red, like he’s been crying again, and something about the way he’s holding himself seems ginger, like he’s trying to hold all his pieces in place until his glue dries.

“Hey,” Simon says, voice soft.

“Hey.” Baz walks over to the window. “What happened?”

 “Nothing much. Dad shouted a bit. He doesn’t like me leaving the house without permission.”

Baz frowns. “Didn’t you come over and play video games without asking a few days ago?”

Simon waves a hand nervously, staring off into space. “He doesn’t know about that because I got home before he did. I thought he would be asleep later than he was. Usually after he…” He falters. “Usually he sleeps until the afternoon on weekends. The note was just to keep him from thinking I was running away if he woke up early, which… he did.” 

“Ouch. And I thought my parents were strict. So… If I can ask, why were you crying?”

Simon jerks his gaze up to look Baz in the eye. “Who said I’ve been crying?”

“Your eyes are all red.”

“Oh, bollocks. Of course they are,” he mutters, swiping at his eyes with the hem of his shirt. As he lifts it, Baz catches sight of another bruise, peeking out from beneath the fabric.

“You must’ve fallen pretty hard down the stairs. That bruise looks rough.”

Simon prods at his cheek. “It doesn’t feel that bad, actually.”

“No, the other one.”

He blanches. “What other one?”

“You know, the one on your stomach?”

“The one on… right, yeah. I’ll be fine. So,” he says, switching topics abruptly. “You ready for school tomorrow?”

“God, no,” Baz groans. “I hate school. And it’s not like they pay us to go.”

“Tell me about it.” And the two boys spend another hour or so bantering back and forth across the divide between their houses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sorry. (Yes, I am.)


	11. I Was Just Trying To Be Cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Posting from my phone so I'm sorry if formatting is a bit wonky. Anyway, I'm going out of town, and I'm not taking my laptop, so I'm giving you two chapters today and after that we'll have a time skip, so this is as good a time to take a quick hiatus as any. I'll be back next Friday!

BAZ

Thankfully, Simon doesn’t wake him up screaming today. That’s the last thing either of them needs on the first day of school.

Instead, he’s woken by Simon’s alarm, five minutes before his own.

“Do you _have_ to set that thing so loud?” he snaps, standing sleepily in front of his window.

“You were going to get up at some point anyway,” Simon points out, stretching his arms out in front of him and wincing from the pain of his stomach.

“Not for another five minutes, thank you. I need the extra sleep.”

“I think you’ll live.”

Baz rolls his eyes, snapping his curtain closed so he can dress for school.

Ten minutes later, he’s down at the breakfast table. His father is reading the newspaper, as usual, and Daphne is making pancakes for them all.

“Basilton, do you need a ride to school, or are you taking the bus?” she asks over her shoulder as she pours more batter into the sizzling pan.

“Nope,” Baz replies proudly. “I talked it over with Simon and we’re going to walk. Apparently it’s not very far.”

“You’re going to walk? Alone? From how strict his father seemed yesterday, I’m surprised he would let him walk to school by himself.”

Baz shrugs. “I think it’s just ‘cause he has to leave for work pretty early. And I figure if Simon’s walking, I may as well too.”

“I could give you both a ride.”

“Nah, no need.” He scarfs down the last of his pancake and grabs his backpack from the floor next to him. “I gotta get going. Bye!”

"Oh, wait!” Daphne runs after him, batter-dipped spatula in one hand and a lunch bag in the other. “Don’t forget this.” She hands him the lunch bag and pulls him into a hug. “Have a good day, sweetie.”

“Thanks, Daphne. Bye!”

“Bye!”

“Bye!” Mordelia calls from the kitchen. Baz and Daphne smile at each other.

* * *

SIMON

“Class, we have a new student today.”

Simon watches as Baz strides casually to the front of the room, shiny new black backpack left on the seat behind Simon’s. (Simon also has a new backpack today. He found it outside his bedroom door this morning.) (He thinks maybe it’s his father’s way of trying to apologize for yesterday.)

“The name’s Baz Pitch,” he says, everything about him radiating confidence. Simon envies the way his speech sounds so natural. He’d give anything to be able to talk like that.

Miss Possibelf looks slightly taken aback by Baz’s cool confidence, but after a moment she regains her composure. “Would you like to tell us something interesting about yourself, Baz?” she asks.

“I play the violin,” he answers, without hesitation.

“Ah, very interesting! Perhaps you’d like to consider joining the school band?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

“Well, I know the music teacher is always looking for new members. Go on, take your seat.”

Baz strides confidently up the aisle and slides easily into the chair behind Simon. He can hear his fingers tapping softly on the wood, an easy beat Simon doesn’t recognize, as Miss Possibelf continues on with the morning announcements.

* * *

BAZ

So far, this school doesn’t suck quite as much as he expected it to.

 It helps that he’s in class with a familiar face, although he and Simon haven’t had a chance to talk yet.

Baz knows he’s supposed to be paying attention to the lesson, but his class at St. Albans covered this last term, so he’s free to let his mind wander until a sudden flurry of movement tells him it’s time for break. He stands, stretches, and is about to follow the others when he’s pulled aside by two of his classmates.

“Possibelf asked us to show you around,” the one on the left explains.

“Cool. The name’s Baz, by the way.”

“I know. I’m Niall,” says the one on the left.

“Dev,” says the one on the right.

Niall and Dev lead Baz through the school, pointing out all the classrooms, the gym, the library, that sort of thing. They’re keeping to one side of the massive campus Baz saw on the way in. He asks why.

“Oh, that’s the secondary school. You shouldn’t have a reason to go there,” says Dev.

“Not that you’d want to, anyway. The big kids are ruthless,” Niall adds. “I heard last year that a couple of fifth years beat up a second year just for using their bathroom.”

Baz thinks that that’s probably a rumor, and that he could handle himself, but he doesn’t say so. No reason to come off as a big shot on his first day.

* * *

SIMON

Simon has always loved school.

Not because of any love of learning (he likes understanding new things, though he’s not the best student), but because he gets to spend so much time away from home. And when his teachers assign him homework, he has an excuse to sit up in his room without fear of his father disturbing him. Plus, with Baz’s coaching, he might actually be good enough to join the little league football team this year. Even so, he’s never really had friends at school, other than Penny. She’s the only one he never seems to fight with.

So one could imagine his surprise when Baz walks up to his table and plops down next to him at lunch.

“Afternoon, Simon,” he greets, barely sparing him a glance before diving into his lunch bag.

Simon just blinks at him.

Baz chews, swallows, glances at Simon - and rolls his eyes. “What, haven’t you seen a sandwich before?”

The sarcastic remark shakes off Simon’s surprise. “No, it’s just- I usually eat alone when Penny’s not here.”

Baz sets down his sandwich. “I can eat somewhere else, if you like.”

“You’re fine,” Simon says quickly. He might as well enjoy the company while it lasts.

“Who’s Penny?” Baz asks.

“A friend,” Simon answers. “I think she has a doctor’s appointment today.”

They eat in companionable silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. When the bell rings, they dump their trash in the nearest can and head back to class for another two hours of Miss Possibelf lecturing them about fractions and symbolism.

* * *

BAZ

Baz is bored out of his mind.

He’s already finished this week’s reading and played every song he can think of. He’s not in the mood to play video games, and he doesn’t want to play football. What he wants to do is hang out with Simon, but his curtains are still closed, and Baz can’t tell if he’s home or not.

Briefly he considers going over to see, but he doesn’t want to risk it if his father is home.

He picks up his violin, sets it back down. Picks up a paperback, flips to a random page, reads a line, closes the book, sets it back down. Strides across the room, opens his door, wanders down to the kitchen.

“I’m boooored,” he whines to Daphne, draping himself across the counter dramatically. “There’s nothing to doooooo.”

“You could help me with dinner,” she suggests.

Baz sits up straight. “On second thought, I think I’ll go practice my violin,” he says hurriedly.

“No, you’ve already done that today. You can help me with dinner. It’s almost done, anyway. Come set the table.”

Baz groans loudly, but grabs four plates from the counter regardless.

Ten minutes later, he’s seated at the table with Fiona, Daphne, and his father, trying to clear his plate as quickly as he can so he can go upstairs and… Well, he’s not really sure what he’ll do when he gets there. He just wants to go upstairs. Maybe Simon will be there.

(Spoiler alert: He’s not.)


	12. My Youth Is Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, everyone! This is the last chapter for the next couple of weeks. Keep in mind that we'll have a fairly large time skip when we get back, and I'll see you all next Friday!

PENNY

There’s a new boy at her table.

She knew vaguely that there’d be a new boy in her class, but she hadn’t expected him to be sitting at Simon’s table.

And she certainly hadn’t expected Simon to be  _ having a conversation _ with him.

She almost doesn’t want to interrupt; it’s rare that she gets to see Simon interacting normally with anyone other than her. But her burning curiosity must be satisfied.

“Simon, catch me up,” she says as she sets her tray down and flops into the seat next to her golden best friend. “Who’s this?”

“Baz Pitch,” says the new boy, extending his hand across the table to her. “New kid. I live next door to Simon.”

“Penny Bunce,” she answers, shaking his hand. It’s cold. “Simon’s best friend...and brain.”

“Hey!” Simon protests. Baz rolls his eyes, chuckling lightly. Simon elbows him in the side and Baz jumps away, half-glaring at the other boy.

“Wait, what happened to your face?” Penny asks, mom friend instincts kicking in.

“Nothing, I fell down the stairs.”

"On your face?”

“Yup,” Baz adds. “His stomach, too. The floor was in a fighting mood, if you ask me.”

Simon shrugs apologetically, as if to say,  _ What can you do? _

“So, Bunce,” Baz says, turning back to her. “Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

* * *

SIMON

_ Today was a good day,  _ Simon thinks.

Penny and Baz got along famously, running circles around Simon with their fast-paced dialogue. He’s no slouch himself, intellectually speaking, but those two are on a completely different level.

Another pleasant surprise was awaiting him when he got home: His father was completely sober, and had decided that Simon needed a bit of coaching in baseball. So they went to the park, and his father helped him with his form and the proper way to swing a bat until the sun went down.

His father then ordered Indian food, and they watched _ Trouble with the Curve _ . Sure, he still drank a beer with dinner, and another while the movie was on, but he didn’t get angry, and sent Simon to bed with a “Good night” and a too-hard slap on the back.

He’s already in pajamas, sitting on his bed and struggling through a few pages of this week’s reading, when it starts. A soft, soothing music, drifting in through his window. But it’s a different song than last time. It’s not the  _ Doctor Who _ theme. This melody switches back and forth between slow and mournful, and so fast and bursting with energy that he’s surprised that Baz keeps up as well as he does. He can almost imagine an entire orchestra crashing behind Baz, bringing a stronger drama to a melody that already holds so much in his long, slender hands.

As the song reaches its last crescendo, rising up one last time to crash back down and stop as suddenly as it started, Simon finds himself breathless, and not from the pain in his chest this time. He wants to clap, but already he can hear Baz shuffling through pages, testing strings, getting ready to try again, so he remains quiet.

He doesn’t finish the reading. Instead, he listens to Baz practice, and falls asleep with the music still playing through his head like a lullaby.

* * *

SIMON

He’s dreading going home today. His father got drunk again last night, and one thing led to another, and… well, Simon got to show up to school sporting a black eye today. That was fun to try to explain away. (He told everyone he hit himself in the eye with a baseball.)

Baz saves him at the last second.

They’re walking home together, and when they reach Baz’s house, he asks if Simon wants to come over for a while. Simon nods, grateful, and they head inside.

Daphne fusses over Simon when she sees his eye. He assures her he’s fine, that it was just an accident with a baseball -- Baz raises an eyebrow at that, but thankfully doesn’t object -- but she still makes him take an ice pack for his cheek. Baz rolls his eyes at Simon when her back is turned, which makes him smile.

Ten minutes later, they make it up to Baz’s room, laden down with enough cookies to feed an army. (Daphne insisted.)

“Wow,” Simon says. “You really can see straight into my room from here.”

“You seriously doubted that?” Baz asks, closing the door with his foot; he’s balancing a plate of cookies in one hand, a glass of milk in the other, and his backpack on his shoulders.

Simon shrugs.

They sit on the floor with cookies and homework sprawled around them, It’s about an hour before Baz brings up what happened last night.

“So what _ really _ happened to your eye?” he asks. “You can’t have fallen down the stairs again. Even  _ you’re _ not that clumsy, Simon.

Simon freezes, a cookie halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers his hand.

“Nothing,” he says, voice carefully measured. “An accident with a baseball, like I said.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know. I can see straight into your room. I’d have noticed if you hit yourself in the face with a baseball. What happened?”

Simon sets the cookie back on the plate and wrings his hands, unable to speak. He doesn’t know a lot of things, but he knows he can’t tell anyone about last night. And he doesn’t want Baz to think he runs around getting into fights all the time, either. Even if it’s true.

“Did someone hit you? Someone at school?”

Baz doesn’t know it, but he’s handed Simon a shovel. Time to start digging. Wordlessly, he nods.

“Who?”

Simon shrugs. “One of the fourth-years. He was aiming for someone else, but the other guy ducked and I got in the way. It’s no big deal.”

He isn’t sure that’s true, but he can hope. It was a  ~~ one-time ~~ four-time thing. A string of accidents. No big deal. As long as he doesn’t make any more mistakes, doesn’t let his guard down, he’ll be fine.

Everything will be fine.


	13. Counting To Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: A week and a half in real life is basically equivalent to seven years, right?  
> Gf: ...Sure.

SIMON

They meet Penny in front of the office of the upper school, as always. She’s armed for the day with her vibrant blue hair, galaxy-patterned backpack, battered purple high-tops, and a thick hardcover book.

“Boys,” she says, by way of greeting. Penny doesn’t believe in hellos, or goodbyes.

“Bunce,” Baz responds.

This is how those two always greet each other. It used to confuse Simon, but by now he’s learned to just roll with it.

Penny reaches up to brush her fingers against a bruise flowering on Simon’s cheek. “Did you get into another fight?” she asks.

Simon tries not to wince at her touch. “He deserved it.”

It’s true, too. Simon’s been getting into more and more fights lately, usually with people who insult Penny or Baz. (Sometimes he gets into fights to defend other people, too. People he’s never met.) (He can’t stand people saying rude things or picking on the weak.) (Simon isn’t weak.) (Not compared to them, anyway.) (But seven years after the first punch, he’s still too weak to stand up to his father.)

“What am I going to do with you?” Penny sighs.

Simon shrugs.

Baz glances at his watch. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I’ve gotta get to class.”

Which is what they do.

* * *

 

BAZ

He’s been bruised for years.

Ever since his father started hitting him, he’s never fully healed. Always there’s some mark or other on his skin.

It’s killed Baz to see him like that. It’s still killing him.

They’d bought Simon’s excuses for a while, but eventually they got too suspicious. So Simon told them he was being bullied. (Not a complete lie, as Baz found out, but not entirely true either.) Then they wanted names; Simon wouldn’t give them. They told Simon’s father; Simon’s father got angry; Simon came to school with more bruises; they got upset. So Simon made something up about the bullies not messing with him when they were around, and they stopped meddling.

Even though they both knew full well what was really going on by then.

(Baz had to work really hard at not killing Mr. Salisbury when he found out they knew and Simon came to school even more fucked up than usual.)

It was around then that Simon started picking fights. First it was just people who insulted Penny or Baz, but then he started protecting everybody. He made a lot of enemies.

But he also made a lot of friends.

In class, in the hallways, on the football pitch. There’s always someone saying hi to Simon, always someone sharing an anecdote or asking about an assignment.

The football players are the worst, in Baz’s opinion. Simon  isn’t on the team, but he spends a lot of time on the pitch anyway because Baz is, and he sees the way Simon winces when Baz’s teammates slap his back. He sees the way he hangs back from the group hugs. He sees the way he grimaces when they pull him in anyway.

He sees, and he tries to make them stop, but they don’t listen. They never listen.

Speaking of never listening, if Simon doesn’t wake up from whatever daydream he’s wrapped himself in, he’ll never pass that test on Monday.

Baz pokes the back of Simon’s neck with the eraser end of his pencil. Simon jumps so badly he almost falls out of his chair, earning a glare from The Minotaur -- the nickname for the eleventh-year Latin teacher. Simon’s head whips around to glare at Baz, who smirks -- _God, he’s adorable_ \-- and jabs his pencil in the direction of the front of the room. Simon glares harder, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, then turns back to the front.

Baz himself doesn’t really need to pay attention. His mother always insisted on summer work in Latin and all the other subjects, to make sure he’d stay at the head of the class, so he’s got the language learned and all the myths down. He could recite the entirety of Roman mythology in his sleep. In Latin, no less.

His father kept the lessons going after she died. Good thing, too, or they’d have ended when he was five, and he’d know no more Latin than a ninth year.

The day it happened was horrible. Baz remembers it perfectly.

It was Tuesday, late August. He and his mother were out running errands, shopping for school; Baz was entering year one. It was just the two of them for the whole day, a rare occurrence with his mother’s busy schedule. They’d just left the office supply store with a new backpack and a load of school supplies for Baz, and were rolling through a green light when the other car ran a red light and cut in front of them.

He found out later that it had been a drunk driver in the other car. Fate must be cruel, Baz decided then, because the other man escaped with a few broken bones, a 10-year prison term, and a subsequent 2-year license suspension, while Baz’s mother was paralyzed on impact and burned alive when the engine exploded.

He doesn’t remember much of the accident. All he knows is he and his mother were laughing one moment and screaming the next. He knows that his mother ran head-on into the left side of the other car, and he knows she was paralyzed on impact. He knows she screamed at the good Samaritans trying to get her out to save her son first. He knows the drunk driver was bitching and moaning about his broken whatever while his own mother was sitting limp at the wheel, screaming her head off to get her son out of the car. He knows the other man was pulled out around the same time he was, his mother’s car already catching fire, and he was only just dragged clear before the engine blew.

That’s what he dreams about, when he has nightmares. The explosion. Her scream.

He’s had a morbid fascination with fire ever since. One would think it’d be the opposite: that he’d fear it with every fiber of his being. But it intrigues him.

Now it’s Simon who snaps _him_ out of his thoughts. When Baz looks around the room, he can see why; it’s lunchtime. Their classmates have already left.

He shakes his head to clear it and stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, making his way through the maze of desks with Simon at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is kind of short -- just over a thousand words. I'll have the next one up on Monday, promise. (Please please please leave comments so I know what y'all are thinking, I crave validation with every fiber of my being.)


	14. Where Dreams Go To Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a stinky bastard dragon of chaos and I got distracted before I posted yesterday so here have a thing  
> (Abuse TW for this chapter -- frankly I should've been marking that all along, I might go back and edit the other author's notes later)

SIMON

His father is out when he gets home.

Not out as in unconscious, out as in gone. The house is silent.

Simon knows he should take the opportunity to get some homework done, since he has so much, but he also knows that if his father comes home drunk and the house isn’t ship-shape, he’ll be in even more trouble than usual.

So he drops his bag by the door, kicks off his shoes, and sets to work. The bottles go in the recycling, the carpet is vacuumed, the remotes are set on the coffee table, marching in a line. Beds are made, dishes are scrubbed and put away, his father’s socks, shoes, and other random items returned to his room or the laundry or wherever they go. By the time his father does return, Simon is sprawled upstairs in his room, doing a maths assignment while Baz plays the violin next door.

Baz has always been a better student than him. Better than Penny, even. They occupy the top two slots in the class; it’s been like that as long as Simon can remember. Since Baz moved here, at least. Simon is intelligent, sure, but he doesn’t have the patience to sit still for hours. If he tries, he falls asleep in class, or stores up so much energy that he has to go run a couple of laps around the school just to sit normally. (Either way, he gets into trouble with both the school and his father.) So his grades aren’t what they should be. It’s only because of Baz that he isn’t failing.

The boy in question finishes the piece he’s been playing for the past ten minutes and rests his violin on his knee. “How’s the homework?” he asks through the window.

Simon looks up, tapping his pencil absentmindedly on the spiral of the notebook in front of him. “Awful. What does it matter how likely someone is to pick chocolate over vanilla?”

Baz shrugs. “It doesn’t. But the school board thinks you should know anyway. Want my notes?”

Simon shakes his head. “I’ve got it. It’s just stupid.”

Baz nods knowingly and turns a page on his music stand with the end of his bow. He starts in on a soft, lilting melody, and before he knows it, Simon’s eyes are drooping. He closes them and puts his head down, just for a minute…

* * *

 

BAZ

It’s not until he finishes the piece that he notices Simon asleep on his notebook, still fully dressed, feet on his pillow. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and he looks so peaceful, the way he never does when he’s awake. Baz can’t help but smile at the sight.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, he packs up his violin and props it against the wall below the window, tucked behind his music stand. Then, he stands carefully, closes his curtains, and leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.

Downstairs, his family is gathered in the foyer. Daphne is helping his half-sister Mordelia 

into her boots.

“Ah, Baz,” his father says. “You’re just in time; I was about to send the maid to get you.”

“Just in time for what?” he asks.

“For dinner,” Daphne answers. “Go get changed; we’re just waiting for Fiona to get here -- you know how she is; I love her to death, but the woman has never left her apartment on time a day in her life -- and then we're going to PassionFish. Or did you forget what day it is?”

PassionFish is an expensive seafood restaurant near their home in Bethesda. They only go there for special occasions, which, he supposes, includes Mordelia’s tenth birthday.

Looks like his plans for the night (mostly daydreaming about Simon) are basically out the window.

“Of course not,” he answers, flashing a smile at Mordelia as he trudges back up the stairs to change into his suit.

* * *

 

SIMON

He’s jerked back to the waking world less than an hour later by his bedroom door slamming open, the room filling with the pungent stench of beer as his father staggers into the room, sticky alcohol sloshing over the hardwood floor. Instantly Simon is sitting up, heart racing, ready for the worst.

“Finished your ho- homework?” his father burps, eyeing him blearily.

Simon hesitates, casting a quick glance at Baz’s bedroom window, thankful to see that it’s dark. Moving faster than you’d think possible for someone so hammered, his father is across the room in an instant, striking Simon across the face.

“I asked you a question, boy,” he snarls, swaying slightly.

“No, sir. I’m still working on it.”

Another slap. “Then what’re you doin’ asleep?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I must have dozed off.”

His father’s hands begin fumbling with his belt, and Simon blanches. “You know the rules. On your- On your knees,” his father growls. “Shirt off.”

Simon swallows thickly but does as he’s asked, wincing at the pain that last night’s bruises give him as he pulls his shirt over his head. He sinks to his knees in the middle of the room, and his father stalks around him in a circle, as if looking for a good angle.

He can’t hold back the cry of pain that slips past his lips as the leather whips across his back, leaving what he’s sure is a vibrant streak of red. But that only makes his father angrier, and after the next strike, Simon can feel warm blood beginning to trickle down his back. Soon enough, salty tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes despite his best efforts to stop them.

It goes on for what feels like an eternity. Simon keeps his gaze locked on Baz’s bedroom window, praying to a god he no longer believes in that his friend stays out a little longer.

Finally, his father drops the belt, seemingly exhausted. He doesn’t even bother to lecture Simon as he stumbles off to his bed. Simon counts to one hundred, then two, then all the way to one thousand, until he’s sure his father isn’t coming back. Only then does he push himself off of the floor, pull a black shirt over his head, and lie back down to finish his assignments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya know, once upon a time, I actually did know exactly where on the map Simon lived. But I forgot where so at this point all I know is it's exactly 9 minutes from a McDonald's and it's apparently somewhere in Bethesda. Do with that what you will.  
> (Originally I was going to send them to some restaurant in Criccieth, which is an hour away, before my wonderful girlfriend reminded me that the English think a ten-minute drive is a bit much to ask and Criccieth is in Wales, which is APPARENTLY a completely different country. What is even going ON over there? I drive an hour here and I'm not even to the nearest cream puff shop.) (Fun fact: it's two hours. We drove it today because I'm a slut for cream puffs.)


	15. I've Been Trying To Hide It, But Lately...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some fluff. A little, at least, before we hit ANGST CITY AHAHAHAHAHAAAA
> 
> I'm so sorry

SIMON

When he wakes again -- this time from a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep -- it’s to the sound of his alarm, shrieking angrily to signal the start of a new day. He jumps, adrenaline pumping more than is technically necessary. (He’s always jumpy nowadays.) (Has been for the last seven years or so.)

Simon starts to fumble for his alarm clock before he realizes that it’s coming from somewhere behind him. Apparently he fell asleep in the middle of his maths homework again after his father left, so he’s now lying upside-down on his bed, night scum leaving a bad taste in his mouth, still wearing jeans and the coarse, black T-shirt he pulled on after his father left last night.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself up into a sitting position and runs a hand through his tangled bronze curls. Next door, Baz, who is already up, stands at the window and grins at him, and- oh.

He tries not to let his eyes linger. He knows it’s wrong to stare, knows his father would beat his arse three ways to Sunday if he knew, but he’s caught Baz in the middle of changing, and the smooth expanse of reddish-brown skin on his chest, the faint hints of muscles that ripple as he moves, are so much that Simon can’t tear his eyes away.

“Like what you see?” Baz asks, pulling Simon from his thoughts. He could be wrong, but he thinks he sees a slight syrup tinge to Baz’s cheeks.

Simon scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Egotist,” he teases, standing up to stretch after so long lying down.

“Wow, I didn’t think any of the vocabulary words I’ve been trying to teach you actually made it through that thick skull of yours,” Baz bites back.

“What can I say?” Simon crosses to his own window. “I’m a natural genius.” And with that, he pulls the curtain closed just in time to hear Baz’s guffaw.

* * *

 

BAZ

He sinks down onto his bed the moment Simon is out of sight, casting aside the shirt he was about to put on, head resting in his hands. God,  _ why  _ does he have to feel like this? Why does it have to be  _ Simon, _ of all people?

It’s not new information to him that he’s hopelessly in love with his best friend. Nor is it new information that his best friend is hopelessly straight. But… every once in a while, he catches Simon looking at him like that, and… he wonders. Finds himself dreaming about what it would be like if he  _ were _ looking at him that way. About walking through the halls with Simon’s hand in his. About draping his arm over Simon’s strong shoulders. About tilting Simon’s chin up and leaning down and-

_ Nope. _ He can’t go down that road right now. He has to get ready for school. He can’t think about things that won’t happen, or today will just be one massive shit on his head.

He should have known better than to catch feelings for a straight boy.

Turns out today is just going to be a massive shit on his head anyway.

It starts when he meets Simon on the curb between their houses. Baz has already seen the fresh bruise spreading over his cheek, but something about the way he’s holding his bag seems… ginger. Like it hurts him to be carrying it.

He knows what that means.

Without allowing room for protest, Baz slips out of one of the straps of his own bag, leaving it hanging from one shoulder, and swings Simon’s bag onto his other shoulder.

“Wha- hey!” Simon sputters, noticeably not reaching to take his bag back. “I can carry my own bag, thank you!”

“Yes, congratulations, you’re very strong,” Baz replies sarcastically, his voice dropping low as he continues. “But you’re also obviously injured. What did he do this time?”

Simon curls in on himself -- with a wince that doesn’t escape Baz -- arms crossed over his chest, but doesn’t speak.

“Is it bad?” Baz asks, words softer than silk. “Worse than normal?”

Wordlessly, Simon nods.

“Will you let me take a look when we get to school?” He’s been carrying around a first aid kit in his bag for years just for these occasions.

Another nod. Gently, Baz bumps Simon’s arm with his own and slings an arm around his shoulders, giving him a side hug.

It takes more than a bit of self-control not to leave his arm there as long as Simon will let him.

* * *

 

When they make it onto campus, they make for the boys’ lavatory, Baz pulling Simon behind him into the handicapped stall on the end. Baz drops their bags onto the cool tile floor and turns to Simon. “Show me.”

Simon hesitates, fidgeting with the edges of his jacket sleeves, but finally relents under Baz’s heavy stare. Slowly -- excruciatingly slowly -- he slips off his hoodie and gingerly pulls his shirt over his head.

Baz gasps; Simon’s chest and stomach is a nightmarish tapestry of browns, blues, purples, and greens. Thick, hand-shaped bruises wrap around his wrists. Baz starts to reach for his bag, to get the first aid kit, but Simon whispers, “Wait,” and, curling in on himself in an effort to stay warm, turns his back to Baz, and- oh.

If he thought Simon’s chest was bad, it’s nothing compared to his back. Angry red welts crisscross over his skin, some trailing faint lines of blood from where they’ve chafed against the coarse fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll kill him,” Baz mutters, clenching his hands into fists. Simon starts to reply, but at that moment, the lavatory door swings open, and a set of footsteps makes its way into the room. Both boys wait with bated breath as the third boy does his business and -- Baz notes with a shudder -- leaves without washing his hands.

“Baz, no,” Simon whispers once the other boy is gone. “That’ll just make it worse.”

“I know. I just…” Baz steps forward and pulls Simon into a gentle hug, trying very hard to ignore the way his heart flutters at being in contact with Simon’s bare chest, even in these circumstances. “I just wish I could do more”

Simon nods into his shoulder, and Baz steps back, reaching into his bag for the first aid kit. “Jesus,” he mutters as he assesses the damage, “what’d he do, whip you with his belt?”

By the tensing of Simon’s shoulders, he can tell his guess is right.

Neither of them says anything more as Baz disinfects Simon’s back, layering cartoon plasters over the most sensitive areas -- because of course Simon convinced him not to buy the “boring” ones. They’re just stepping out of the stall when Niall and Dev, two of Baz’s teammates from the football team, walk in. They look at Simon and Baz, look at the stall door swinging behind them, look at each other, shrug, and wave hello. Dev holds his hand up for a high-five as Simon passes, and Simon, reluctantly, obliges. 


	16. Time And Space Between Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating a lil early because dysphoria is kicking my genderqueer ASS (I only recently figured out why calling myself a woman/people using she/her pronouns for me always felt weird and wrong so I'm only just now realizing how much of my general self hatred was dysphoria in disguise and now that I'm aware of it it's soooooo much worse) and I need a distraction so please please please read my angst and come talk to me

SIMON

Classes crawl by at a snail’s pace.

He tries to take detailed notes -- he really, truly tries; he knows his father will do worse than whip him if he doesn’t pass his classes, and he already has a dangerously low C in Biology, but the professor’s voice just drones on and on and  _ on _ .

His eyelids are getting heavy now. He tries to shake himself awake, to pinch the soft skin on the inside of his arm, but he’s just so  _ tired _ … 

The next thing he knows, Baz is shaking him awake.

Simon jolts up, then immediately groans at the sudden movement. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, and Baz smiles fondly down at him.

“Nice moves. Come on, class is over. Let’s go study at mine.” He offers him a hand up, and Simon takes it gratefully, not protesting when Baz slings both their backpacks over his shoulders again.

Penny intercepts them at the front of the school. “Boys,” she says casually, raising an eyebrow at the sight of them.

“Bunce.” Baz nods in acknowledgement.

“Why are you carrying Simon’s backpack?”

“This idiot-” Baz jerks a thumb at Simon “-fell asleep in Chemistry. I’m being generous.”

Simon punches Baz weakly in the arm with a small smile. Baz feigns offense.

“Wow, rude. I don’t  _ have _ to carry your bag for you, you know,” he snaps, but there’s no real bite to it. Simon tilts his head down and looks up at Baz, fluttering his lashes, hands clasped in front of him.

“My hero,” he says, pretending to swoon. Baz cackles. Penny rolls her eyes and steps between them, slinging an arm over each of their shoulders and forcing them both to bend down in the process.

“Come on, you idiots. My mum’s given me until five to hang out with you, and Baz, you and I both know Simon will fail  _ all _ of his classes if we don’t make him study.”

Simon gasps dramatically. “What is it, Pick on Simon Day?”

“Nah, don’t be silly,” Baz says, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “That’s Tuesday.”

Simon rolls his eyes and smiles softly.  _ God, _ he loves these idiots. These moments with them are worth any punishment his father could ever dole out.

* * *

 

BAZ

“How much sodium chloride is in the average human body?” Penny asks from her perch on Baz’s desk.

Simon, sprawled out across Baz’s bed, screws up his eyes and thinks. “...A kilo?” he asks finally. Baz snorts.

“Simon, there’s not even a kilo of salt in this room,” Penny explains. Simon curses.

“Speak for yourselves,” Baz jokes. “I’m salty enough to contain that much sodium chloride on my own.” Penny rolls her eyes.

“Two hundred fifty grams, Simon,” she corrects. “The test is next week; you need to focus, okay?”

“I know,” Simon says wearily. “I’m just… tired today.”

“I wonder why,” Baz deadpans, glaring over at Simon’s open bedroom window.

Penny glances behind her and pales slightly. “Speak of the devil,” she says coldly. “Simon, your dad’s just pulled into the garage.”

Simon curses again.

In an instant, everyone is moving, the routine old hat but still as stressful as ever. Penny shoves Simon’s things into his schoolbag; Simon pulls his shoes on; Baz strides to the window and opens it, pulling the tabs along the frame to pop the screen out. He leans it against his dresser just in time; half a second later, Penny hands Simon his bag, and Simon clambers up onto Baz’s windowsill, one hand holding tight to the top of the frame as he reaches out for the top of his own window. As always, Baz holds his breath as Simon’s hand finds purchase on the other window, and his feet move to the other windowsill: first one, then the other. Finally, he lowers himself feet-first through his bedroom window, sets his bag down, turns, and gives the other two a thumbs-up. They just have time to see him kick off his shoes, flop onto his bed, and pull out a notebook before his father’s footsteps come up the stairs.

_ Thump, thump, thump. _

Quietly, Baz sets the screen back in place and closes the window, and Penny pulls the curtains shut. They know Simon’s father doesn’t like it when they hang out with or near Simon.

“I hate having to send him back there,” Penny mutters, flopping down onto Baz’s bed.

Baz sits down in his desk chair, resting his chin on his hand. “His father used his belt on him last night.”

Penny sits up, shocked. “ _ What?! _ ”

Baz nods. “He showed me this morning. I think it’s getting worse.” He throws a glance towards his wall calendar, which reads ‘18 May’. “I hate to say it, but… it does make sense. Both finals  _ and _ Simon’s birthday are coming up. You know how stressed those make Simon, and how angry they make his father.”

“I just hate that we have to leave him there…” Penny curls in on herself, and Baz crosses the room to lay a comforting hand on her arm.

“I know, Pen. But there’s not much we can do.”

A single tear leaks from Penny’s eye, and just like that, she’s sobbing into Baz’s arms, and all he can do is stare at the curtains that obscure them from Simon’s view and hope that the boy he loves will be okay.

* * *

 

SIMON

His father opens his bedroom door, a half-empty beer already in hand -- pungent odour of liquor hanging around him like a cloud, telling Simon this is far from his first beer of the day -- seconds after Simon pulls his notebook out of his bag. He tries to slow his breathing and does his best to pretend to have been absorbed in his assignment.

“Hello, sir. How was your day?”

“Horrible. The other party ba-” He pauses to burp. “-backed out of one of my mergers.”

“That’s not good, sir,” Simon says, pretending to have any idea what a merger is.

“Finished your homework yet?”

“Oh. Er, not quite, sir. I still have-”

But Simon doesn’t get to finish, because his father has hurled his bottle at the wall behind Simon. It shatters on impact, raining brown glass shards and droplets of beer down over him.

“Didn’t I tell you to do it last night?” his father growls.

“Well, yes, sir, but-”

“ _ DON’T TALK BACK TO ME! _ ” Before he has time to blink, his father’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, and he’s pulling him to his feet, grabbing onto the front of his shirt to bring him close.

“You want to try that again?” he asks, voice dangerously low.

Simon swallows. “Yes, sir,” he replies, his voice small. “I’m sorry, sir.”

His father shoves him roughly to the ground. “That’s better. You’ll spend your entire weekend in this room. You will not eat, you will not sleep, and you  _ will not see that fairy friend of yours _ until your homework is done. Is that clear?”

“But sir, I-”

A harsh kick from a steel-toed boot makes contact with his stomach, directly on one of his fresher bruises, and Simon chokes, gasping for breath.

“ _ IS THAT CLEAR?! _ ”

“Y-yes, sir.”

His father storms out of Simon’s room. At the last moment he turns and points to the bed, where shards of broken glass and droplets of beer glitter on the sheets. “And  _ clean that up! _ ” he roars, before slamming the door behind him. After a few moments, Simon hears something heavy slide in front of the door.


	17. Without Losing A Piece Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody. Sorry, I was having a really bad day yesterday, so my datemate and I went to Olive Garden after I got off work and we didn't get back until late, and then I got distracted after work today by the need to write a full-on essay to one day explain to my parents what the hell my gender identity is (complete with diagrams and sources, I shit you not; I even bought those fancy report folder things so I can present them like a well-reasoned adult instead of a chaos dragon). So I only just remembered that I was supposed to update yesterday. Sorry about that.
> 
> In any case, this is a reaaaaaally fluffy chapter, so I hope y'all like it.

SIMON

He crouches on his windowsill, one hand gripping the top of the frame, and reaches across the divide between their houses to knock softly on Baz’s window.

It’s late now, the crescent moon shedding almost no light on the neighbourhood tonight. He hasn’t heard any movement from his father for at least an hour, and he _needs_ to get to the loo.

After a few moments, a light flicks on behind the curtain, and Baz slides his bedroom window open, looking concerned.

“Simon? What’s wrong?”

“Dad locked me in my room. Can I use your loo?”

Baz doesn’t hesitate, working the window screen free as fast as he can. Simon clambers through the now-open window, stepping quietly onto Baz’s carpeted floor.

“Thanks,” he whispers. Baz gives his shoulder a light squeeze as Simon tiptoes past him to his bedroom door. Behind him, Baz eases the screen back into place.

He hasn’t made it more than three paces down the hallway before Daphne appears at the top of the stairs, bearing a mug of something steaming. “Oh!” she gasps, laying a hand over her heart as if to calm it. “Hello, Simon. I didn’t know you were here.” She looks at his face and frowns. “Are you alright?”

“Hi, Mrs. Grimm,” he replies, offering a weak smile. “I’m fine, thanks. I just have to go to the loo.”

“Of course, dear.” She steps aside, and he slides through the door to her right.

* * *

 

BAZ

Not twenty seconds after Simon leaves his room and he’s finished putting the screen back in, a knock sounds at his door.

“Come in,” he calls. The doorknob turns, and Daphne steps into his room, bearing a mug of tea in one hand. “Hi, Daph.”

“Basilton, I’ve just seen Simon in the hallway. Is he alright?”

“Hm?” Baz makes a sound like he hadn’t noticed. “Oh, yeah, he’s fine.”

“Are you… quite sure? I thought he left hours ago. How did he get back-” She looks behind him, at the open window. “Ah.”

“...Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, Basilton. I’m concerned. If something is going on with Simon, or with you, please tell me. I’d like to be able to help, if I can.” She gives him a small smile and turns to go, but pauses in the doorway. “Oh, and if there _is_ something going on between you two, please use protection. It’s in the lavatory cabinet.”

“ _Daphne!_ ” Baz hisses, face hot. Daphne just chuckles and steps out, closing the door behind her.

* * *

 

SIMON

When he gets back from the bathroom, Baz has already retrieved a second pillow from the hall closet and pulled a pair of his own pyjamas out for Simon to wear.

“Baz, what are you doing?” he asks, stepping towards the window. “I have to get back-”

“Please,” Baz interrupts, placing a gentle hand on his chest, trying -- and failing -- to disguise the quiver in his hands and voice. “Don’t go. I… I can’t send you back there right now.”

“Baz, if he comes to check on me and sees I’ve snuck out-”

“You’ll go back in the morning. Before sunrise, if you want. Just… please. For my sake.”

That clinches it. If there’s one thing Simon hates more than his father, it’s seeing Baz upset. _I would do anything to wipe that sad look off your face,_ he thinks.

“I… okay.”

Simon changes into Baz’s pyjamas without leaving the room, Baz turning his back to give him privacy even though they’ve changed in front of each other a hundred thousand times. They climb into Baz’s twin bed, the close proximity all but forcing Baz to lay on Simon’s chest. They’ve done this thousands of times before -- Daphne never bothered to pull out the air mattress after those first few sleepovers, when she’d inevitably find them curled up together in the morning -- but this time, something feels… different. Simon’s heart is beating faster than it has any right to be doing, and his face is oddly warm despite the cool night breeze coming in through the window.

There’s something wet dripping onto Simon’s shoulder, and it takes him longer than he’d care to admit to realize it’s Baz. His shoulders are shaking, breath going in and out of his lungs in aborted gasps, and after a moment, Simon realizes that he’s crying.

_Baz is crying._

“Hey, shh,” he whispers, rubbing circles into his friend’s back. “Hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong?”

Baz lifts his head to look Simon in the eyes, and- _oh._

* * *

 

BAZ

In Baz’s defence, he wasn’t _planning_ to kiss him.

He wasn’t really planning any of this, to be honest. It was just that he was lying there, listening to Simon’s heartbeat, and he was realizing how easily that heartbeat could be stopped by Mr. Salisbury at any time, and Simon asked him what was wrong, and he just. He couldn’t stop himself.

As soon as his lips make contact with Simon’s, his eyes shoot open, and he pulls back, staring at Simon in shock.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Baz stammers. “I don’t know what came over me. I… forget it ever happened, okay? I… I understand if you want to go back to yours now-”

Simon crushes Baz’s mouth to his, effectively shutting him up, and Baz loses all sense of time. All he knows is that Simon is _here,_ he’s _alive,_ and _he’s kissing Baz._

Baz pulls back after a moment. “Fuck, Si, you have _no idea_ how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” he says, grinning.

Simon grins back. “Are you going to do it again, or do I have to ask politely?” he teases.

“Mm… I don’t know.” Baz pretends to contemplate it. “What’s the magic word?”

“Bugger off,” Simon mutters, pushing Baz up into a sitting position so he can get to his mouth more easily.

Time sort of blurs together after that. All Baz knows is this room, this moment. Simon Salisbury, sitting in front of him, shirt tossed aside, kissing him breathless. Simon Salisbury, holding himself up on all fours above Baz, making him reach up for his mouth. Simon Salisbury letting him trace lightly over all of the bruises on his chest and stomach, letting him press his lips to each one as if that will make them better.

Eventually, Simon pulls Baz into his broad chest, hugging him tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and they drift off, happier than either of them has been in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fasten your seatbelts, guys, gals, and non-binary pals. Excessive angst beyond this point.


	18. Without Changing A Part Of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is late but it IS technically still Friday where I am. Emotional turmoil, romantic confusion, doormat tendencies, yada yada yada. Let's get to the angst already.

DAVID

At first, when he wakes up, he doesn’t remember what happened. In fact, it’s not until he sees the heavy armchair pushed in front of Simon’s bedroom door that he recalls their argument last night.

(Okay, he has to be honest with himself. It wasn’t an argument, so much as it was David beating Simon senseless for no real reason.) (He has all weekend to finish his homework; there was no reason for him to be so harsh.)

(Not for the first time, he swears to himself that he won’t drink today. Simon deserves a better father than this.)

Quietly, just in case his son is still sleeping, David pushes the armchair out of the way, eases Simon’s door open, and looks around -- face morphing from sorrow to confusion to anger.

Because his son’s room is empty.

And the window is wide open.

David stomps across the bedroom and peers out the window for any sign of which direction Simon went. He stops short halfway there, though, because as it turns out, he didn’t go far at all. Only a few metres, actually.

He’s lying in the bedroom of the house next door -- the one where that fairy he likes to hang out with lives, David remembers -- with his arms curled around the other boy. Both of them shirtless. Looking comfortable, and sweet, and positively  _ domestic. _

_ God,  _ he needs a drink.

Quietly now, so he doesn’t wake the  _ lovebirds _ , he heads back downstairs, grabs a fresh six-pack from the fridge, and returns to Simon’s room to wait.

* * *

 

SIMON

He wakes up disoriented, because his bed is in the wrong place, and the light from the window is much brighter, and there’s a boy asleep on his chest….

_ Oh. _ That’s right. Baz kissed him.

Baz  _ kissed _ him.

And he kissed back.

Simon gently rubs his hand up and down Baz’s smooth, warm back, enjoying the simple, comforting weight of his friend’s -- boyfriend’s? -- head on his chest, and the bliss that comes from knowing he is safe here. His father can't get to him when he's here, with Baz in his arms.

He must doze off again at some point, because when he wakes up again, it’s to find Baz’s beautiful grey eyes watching him, expression soft.

“Hey,” Baz whispers, smiling fondly.

“Hey.”

“Sleep well?”

“Mm. You?”

Baz leans down and kisses him gently. “Does that answer your question?”

Simon smiles, then something in his brain must wake up, because he’s suddenly jumping out of bed, swearing under his breath.

“What?” Baz asks, more than a little alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“I stayed too long,” Simon explains hurriedly, changing back into his own clothes 

without making any attempt at hiding his bruises or welts from Baz's view in the harsh light of day. “I meant to be back before sunrise so my dad wouldn’t notice I was gone. If he’s already checked on me…” He shudders. “I just have to get back.”

Baz, mercifully, doesn’t ask him to stay longer. (Simon isn’t sure he’d be able to say no if he did.) Instead, he climbs out of bed as well and starts prying out the window screen.

Simon gets one foot onto the windowsill before Baz grabs his hand, making him look back.

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss Simon one more time. “Be careful, okay?”

Simon nods. “Careful is my middle name.”

Baz snorts, but lets his hand go so he can crawl back into his own room.

He lands soundlessly in his stockings, the hardwood floor hardly even creaking as his feet hit the ground. For a moment -- one glorious moment -- he thinks he’s done it, that he is safe. And then:

“Well, well, inn’t that just the sweetest fuckin’ thing.”

Simon’s blood runs cold. Slowly -- painstakingly slowly -- he turns his head towards the source of the voice.

There, on his bed, already surrounded by four empty glass bottles and well into a fifth, sits his father. He’s bleary-eyed and unshaven, sure, and his slumped posture doesn’t serve to make him very intimidating, but years of mental conditioning freeze Simon to the spot.

“You know,” his father continues, getting to his unsteady feet, “I got up this morning feelin’ kinda bad about our little argumen’ last night. I’m a reasonable guy. I can admit when I was being a little unnecessary. So I come in here, all ready to apologize, and what do I see. What do I see but you and  _ that fuckin’ fairy _ all  _ cozied up together _ like a couple of  _ fags. _ Is that what you are? Did I raise a fag, son?”

Simon can’t speak. He can’t even move. Every muscle in his body is wound up tight, frozen in place. 

“You listen to me, boy. You’re never gonna see that  _ homo _ again. You’re never gonna talk to him, never trade notes with him, never even  _ look _ at him again. Is that clear?”

“Sir, I-” Simon manages, but his father is already across the room, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him into the wall.

“ _ IS THAT CLEAR?! _ ” he roars. He punches Simon, square in the face,  _ hard. _ Once, twice, three times, until Simon is sure both of his eyes are black and his nose will never sit straight.

_ Just like the rest of me, _ he thinks wryly, glancing at Baz's window -- which is mercifully empty; he doesn't know what he would do to himself if he forced Baz to witness this -- and his thoughts of the other boy must show on his face, because his father brings his knee up to hit squarely in Simon's stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs for what feels like the thousandth time that week.

“ _ ARE YOU GONNA SEE HIM AGAIN _ ?”

Simon shakes his head frantically. “No, sir,” he gasps.

“ _ ARE YOU GONNA TALK TO HIM?” _

“No, sir," he says again, voice a bit stronger now.

“ _ GOOD. _ ” He turns and shoves Simon back towards his bed. Simon trips over an empty beer bottle and falls, hard, onto the mattress. In a second he’s back up, though, scrambling into the far corner, curling himself into a ball in an effort to protect his head and vital organs from his father’s tirade. But he doesn't need to, because his father doesn't try to hit him again. Instead, he shouts something that chills Simon to the bone.

“ _ YOU BRING HIM BACK HERE ONE MORE TIME, I’LL KILL BOTH OF YA! _ ” And with that, his father storms out, slamming the door behind him. Simon hugs his knees to his chest and cries.

And cries.

And cries.

* * *

 

Later that day, his father comes back, carrying a hammer and several wooden boards. He doesn’t speak to Simon as he nails them into place, effectively cutting off Simon’s best point of contact with Baz. The only words they exchange for the rest of the day are traded when Simon’s father leaves with the hammer. He growls: “Finish your fuckin’ homework.”

Simon replies: “Yes, sir.”

Once, as Simon inspects the wooden slats now covering his window, he catches sight of Baz, staring wide-eyed at him. He starts to write something down, but Simon just looks away sadly and closes the curtain.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

* * *

 

Baz comes to the front door on Friday morning, as his father is getting ready for work.

He’s drafting a lengthy email to a client when the knocking starts, so he sends Simon to get the door. Simon walks down the hall, feeling like a marionnette twitching on its strings.

And then he opens the door, and his little wooden heart  _ s t o p s. _

Because here stands Baz. The boy who kissed Simon like his life depended on it. The boy who layered plasters over a hundred thousand cuts and scrapes over the years. The boy who squeezed his hand and told him to be careful.

“Simon,  _ finally, _ ” Baz says, practically breathless with relief. “What happened? You’ve been ignoring me all week. Is…” He hesitates. “Is this about Friday? Because we don’t have to-”

“Simon, who is it?” his father calls, heavy, steel-toed footsteps following on the heels of his words, and then his father is standing at the end of the hallway. Watching them. He can feel the weight of his gaze on his back, can see it in the way Baz’s glare slips underneath Simon’s outstretched arm.

There’s no other option. Not with his father right behind him.

“Baz,” he starts, clenching his free hand into a fist tight enough to leave crescent marks on his palms. “Leave me alone, please.”

Baz looks heartbroken. “Simon, I don’t-”

“I never want to see you again. Please, go away.”

Baz opens his mouth once, then twice. Finally, he sets his jaw and turns away, unable to hide the tears glinting in his eyes.

Simon closes the door, and his father walks up behind him to clap a hand to his shoulder.

“Attaboy,” he says as Simon fights down the urge to vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious that I've never had alcohol yet? Because I have no idea how functional one would be at four beers going on five


	19. Anything Hurts Less Than The Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil cackling*

BAZ

It’s been a week.

Seven full days, and Simon hasn’t spoken a single word to him.

Baz has tried everything. He's waited for Simon on the curb between their houses, he's thrown pebbles at his window, and he's slipped him notes under the desks in class. Nothing he does has gotten Simon to so much as  _ look _ at him.

Well, okay. That’s not  _ quite  _ true. He did look at him once.

He did more than look at him once he went to the door.

Simon opened the door, looked him dead in the eye, and told him to leave him alone. Told him he never wanted to see him again.

And as much as he doesn't want to admit it, Baz knows why.

He fucked up. He kissed his best friend, and for one glorious night, it seemed like they could be together. And then…

And then everything came crashing down.

Simon must have come to his senses shortly after he got home. He must have realized that someone like him was too good for someone like Baz. Boarding up the window may have been a bit extreme, but he can see where Simon was coming from.

It's easy enough to avoid thinking about most of the time. When you have someone like Simon by your side, there tends to be no end to the distractions. But it's always… there. The hollow feeling in his chest doesn't really go away. He's good at ignoring it, yes, but… not always.

And without Simon, his mind is running away with him.

On Saturday, exactly one week after they kissed and Simon stopped speaking to him, Penny gets fed up with his mopey bullshit and materializes at his front door.

"All right, Pitch, out with it," she snaps the moment he opens the door, pushing past him into the house.

"Hullo to you too, Bunce," he says dryly, following her up the stairs to his room.

"You know I don't do hellos, Baz. Now. What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." It's a lie and they both know it. Penny stops in the hallway, folds her arms and raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.

Rather than answering her, Baz opens his bedroom door and flops face-down onto his bed in the darkened room.

"Nope." Penny flicks on the light, and it's all Baz can do to be thankful she didn't open the curtains. (It's too painful to look at Simon's window, at how badly he doesn't want to talk to Baz .) "Come on, get up. You and Simon haven't spoken all week. What happened?"

"I kissed him," Baz says into the comforter.

"Sorry, I don't speak mumbling. What?"

Baz lifts his head. "I kissed him, okay?" He stares at the wall as he speaks, unable to make eye contact with Penny. "I kissed him, and now he won't even look at me. He boarded his window, for fuck's sake."

Penny blinks at him, stunned.

"I just… I really thought we would work, you know?" he adds mournfully.

"Wait, back up. You like Simon?"

"More than that." Baz rolls onto his side to look at her. "I'm fantastically, over-the-top, want-to-slit-my-own-throat in love with him, and he doesn't feel the same way. He boarded up his fucking window, Pen. That doesn't exactly say 'take me now'."

Penny, to her credit, doesn't take long to regain her composure. After a few seconds of shocked silence, she strides across the room and delves into his dresser.

"Penny, what are you-" he starts, but is cut off as he's hit in the face with one of his own shirts.

"Go get dressed, you're done moping," she snaps, tossing him a pair of trousers as well.

* * *

 

In retrospect, Baz doesn't know what he expected from Penny.

She's a lot of things -- headstrong, tough, vaguely reckless -- but comforting is not usually one of them.

Still, he has to admit, pelting him with his own clothes and dragging him to the train tracks is an odd way of cheering him up, even for her.

"What exactly is it we're doing here?" he asks, not for the first time.

Just as before, Penny doesn't answer him, opting instead to peer along the tracks for… something. At last she seems to see what she's looking for, because she turns to him and smiles.

"Screaming," she says simply.

"Sorry,  _ what? _ "

Penny rolls her eyes. "Sometimes, when I get really stressed, I come here, and when a train goes by, I just  _ scream _ as loud as I can. It's surprisingly cathartic, and this way, no one thinks we're being murdered and calls 999."

The train is drawing closer now. Unbidden, the thought comes into his head that it would be so easy, so heart-poundingly  _ easy _ to just step onto the tracks and wait. It would hurt, of course, but… maybe he deserves it. Maybe that would be his punishment for not intervening with Simon's father, for not doing more.

For ruining their friendship.

Almost as if she can read his thoughts, Penny grasps his hand and squeezes it tightly, the rattle and whistle of the train so loud now that they can't speak. He looks at her. She nods.

The first of the cars roars past, stirring their hair and clothes in the wind, and Baz just  _ screams. _ He hardly even has to try, really. It's almost as if the sound is ripping itself from his throat, as if it were waiting for this. Next to him, Penny is screaming, too, but he can't hear her over the train. He can't even hear himself, really.

After what feels like forever, the caboose of the train whips past them, swaying them slightly in the slipstream, and Baz almost feels as though his heartache has been carried away as well, if only for a little while.

"Better?" Penny asks. And though his throat is raw and aching, he nods anyway.

* * *

 

SIMON

Everything becomes monotone once Baz is gone.

School is a blur. Simon has trouble getting out of bed on time most days -- early, actually; he’s started taking the long way to school so he won’t be tempted to talk to Baz, or hold his hand, or press him up against a fence and stand on his toes to kiss him. Going into class and managing to take notes that will actually help him study for finals is a pipe dream.

Penny tries to help, of course. They’ve known each other since year one, and she’s not going to just let him go. But eventually even she gets the message that he wants to be alone, and she takes to sitting with Baz on the other side of the cafeteria.

How he manages to pass through finals relatively unscathed -- academically speaking, at least -- Simon will never know. But of course, in his father’s books, just short of failing is not good enough for his “golden boy”.

He’s too messed up to leave the house for two weeks after grades are posted. Good thing it’s summer.

By the time his birthday rolls around, he’s just going through the motions of living, his heart not really in it. In fact, he almost doesn’t notice it  _ is _ his birthday. His father certainly wasn’t going to say anything. He took the 21st and the 22nd off work. Not so he could celebrate his son turning sixteen, but because Simon’s birthday fell on a Thursday and he wanted to spend his self-granted five-day weekend on a drinking binge.

Simon tries to make himself scarce on his birthday -- the anniversary of his mother’s death -- he tries not to let himself think that he killed her, even though, technically, he did -- but given his father’s rule of not leaving the house without explicit permission, the only place for him to hide is the front porch. (His room is too close to his father’s to feel safe, and the boarded-up window puts a hollow feeling in his chest every time he looks at it.) (He’d hide in the backyard so he won’t risk seeing Baz, but their housing development is so closely built that none of the houses  _ have _ backyards, and there isn’t an attic or basement, either.)

He’s sitting cross-legged on the varnished wood, worn smooth from years of steady foot traffic, when the door of the Grimm-Pitch household opens, and out steps the one person Simon has been craving more than a dying man in a desert craves water.

The one person he can’t have.

Baz puts a hand up to shield his eyes from the harsh sun, closing the front door behind him. He’s got a small, flat box in his other hand. As Simon watches, transfixed, he glances towards Simon’s front door in an almost routine manner, stopping short when he sees Simon. Hesitantly, he raises a hand in acknowledgement. Simon’s own hand goes up to mimic his before he can stop it.

Gracefully --  _ fuck, _ Simon almost managed to make himself forget how graceful he is all the damn time -- he makes his way across the lawns that divide them. Simon’s shoulders tense, hands curling against the wood until his nails dig into his palm.

He knows what he has to do. Even though it breaks his heart that much further to see the one thing he wants most in this world, the one thing that can never be his while his father breathes.

“Hey." Baz doesn't say the word so much as exhale it, like he's been holding his breath for a long, long time. Simon forces himself not to look up. “Can I sit?”

Fuck, he can't tell him to leave.

Doing his best to make it look like he’s simply resituating himself in case his father is watching -- even though he knows he's not -- Simon moves the slightest bit aside to make room for him.

Just… one minute. That’s all he needs.  _ One minute _ of the proximity he so desperately craves.

“Look,” Baz starts. (Simon won’t look at him.) (He  _ can’t. _ ) (If he looks at Baz now, he might never look away.) “I know you’re mad at me. And I’m sorry for that night. I shouldn’t have done what I did, and I never would have if I’d known that it would drive you away like this. So I know you probably don’t care, and you can chuck this into the road once I leave if you really want to, but… I want to give you this.” He sets the small, flat box down next to Simon, and Simon can see that the paper it’s wrapped in is covered in balloons with little smiley faces on them. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a fond smile despite himself.

“It’s a CD,” Baz tells him. “There’s only one song on it, though. I wr… I mean… here. Happy birthday.” He stands to go, but turns back at the last moment. “I really am sorry, Simon. And I miss you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please validate me I crave your approval


	20. That's All I Wanna Do Right Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so y'all know classes start back up for me next week and I STILL haven't written the epilogue so I'm gonna try to get on that ASAP but if I don't get it done I'm gonna post the chapters I have and then there may be a veeeeeery long gap between the last chapter and the epilogue. I realize this sentence is very rambly but I leave for work in like five minutes and I'm trying to get this up now instead of waiting until I'm a zombie tonight (my customer service voice kills me) so... yeah. Have a thing.

SIMON

He can't listen to the CD while his father is home, so he has to wait until after he leaves for work on Monday -- and after he finishes cleaning the house top to bottom, because while Simon is on summer holiday, his father treats him like a maid and stops even changing the toilet paper roll -- not that he does much in the way of housework the rest of the year, either -- to put it into the CD player in his father’s room.

For a moment all he hears is static, and he’s so,  _ so  _ scared that he scratched it, that he managed to ruin Baz’s last gift to him the same way he’s been ruining everything in his life from the moment he was born, and then-

And then,  _ magic. _

Because Baz didn’t just find a song that he thought Simon would like.

He  _ wrote  _ a song  _ for Simon. _

(Literally, that’s what’s scrawled on the front of the CD.)

The song quickly launches into the most melancholy violin strain Simon has ever heard, and every note  _ screams _ how much Baz misses him. Simon closes his eyes, letting the melody flow through him.

And then they shoot open again, because Baz’s voice is crooning through the crackly speakers.

_ I wanna sleep next to you, _

_ But that’s all I wanna do right now, _

_ And I wanna come home to you, _

_ But home is just a room full of my safest sounds. _

Simon stares at the stereo, wide-eyed. This… this is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for him.

_ ‘Cause you know that I can’t trust myself with my 3 A.M. shadow, _

_ I’d rather fuel a fantasy than deal with this alone, _

_ I wanna sleep next to you, _

_ But that’s all I wanna do right now, _

_ So come over now, _

_ And talk me down. _

A drop of water splashes against Simon’s sleeve, and it’s not until he looks down at it that he realizes he’s crying.

_ I wanna hold hands with you, _

_ But that’s all I wanna do right now, _

_ And I wanna be close to you, _

_ ‘Cause your hands and lips still know their way around, _

_ And I know I like to draw that line when it starts to get too real, _

_ But the less time that I spend with you, the less you need to heal, _

_ I wanna sleep next to you, _

_ But that’s all I wanna do right now, _

_ So come over now, _

_ And talk me down. _

God, he’s never wanted anything more than to run next door and kiss this boy senseless. He would trade the entire rest of his days for one more hour with him.

But it’s not only his life he’d be trading.

_ So if you don’t mind, I’ll walk that line _

_ Stuck on a bridge between us, _

_ Grey areas, and expectations, _

_ But I’m not the one, if we’re honest, _

_ But I wanna sleep next to you, _

_ And I wanna come home to you, _

_ I wanna hold hands with you, _

_ I wanna be close to you, _

_ I wanna sleep next to you, _

_ But that’s all I wanna do right now, _

_ And I wanna come home to you, _

_ But home is just a room full of my safest sounds, _

_ So come over now, _

_ And talk me down. _

The song fades, but the tears keep pouring down Simon’s cheeks -- whether from joy or sorrow, he can’t tell.

So he plays it again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

 

He carries that song in his heart like a talisman now.

Every time his father swings at him, it seems to hurt just a little bit less. Every biting remark, every sleepless night, every ache and pain doesn't quite strike at his center anymore.

But he still can’t be with the boy he loves. And his father is starting to hint that he’d like Simon to get a girlfriend.

How lucky it is, then, that on the first day of twelfth year, he meets  _ her. _

She shines like a sun, standing out in even the largest of crowds. No matter where she is, his eyes seem to find her immediately.

He spends the entire first week of classes staring at the back of her head, entranced by her flowing golden hair, thinking that this --  _ this  _ is the sort of girl his father wants him to bring home.

By the second week, he’s learned her name.

Agatha. Agatha Wellbelove.

She’s started noticing him as well. They make eye contact across the cafeteria constantly. It’s… it’s not  _ electric, _ the way it was with Baz. But it’s warm.

_ She _ is warm. She is safety.

She is his father’s endgame.

At the start of the third week, she picks up her environmentally-friendly, reusable lunch container and carries it over to his table.

“Hi,” she says shyly, a soft smile gracing her features.

“Hi,” Simon replies, elegantly managing to splash water down his front.

Agatha giggles. “Can I sit here?”

Simon gestures to the empty table. “Pick a chair.”

* * *

 

BAZ

At first, he pays no mind to the new girl at all.

It’s not him being callous. New kids come and go all the time; their school does have more than 900 students, after all. And yes, she’s in most of his classes, but Baz is usually too busy taking detailed notes and trying not to stare at Simon to notice much else.

But he definitely sees her now.

He sees her now, because she is sitting next to Simon.

_ His _ Simon.

And he is smiling, in a way that Baz has not seen him smile for  _ months. _

_ God, _ he misses that smile. Misses seeing it pointed at him.

(He knows he has no right to feel this possessive of Simon.) (He rejected him, after all. He made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want Baz in his life.) (But,  _ fuck… _ he underestimated how much seeing him with someone else would  _ hurt. _ )

Soon, rather than watching Simon by himself, he’s watching Simon with her. (Agatha, he learns soon after. Her name is Agatha.) He watches them talking and laughing, watches them hold hands in the halls, watches her lean into his ear and whisper something that makes him snort so hard that water shoots from his nose. He watches him turn red, watches her laugh and touch his arm.

It… It feels worse than he thought it would. Seeing them together.

(He knew it wasn’t like the song was going to magically fix things between him and Simon.) (But… he was sort of hoping they could go back to being friends, at least.) (Apparently Simon has other ideas.)

* * *

 

SIMON

One month after he first sees Agatha, he works up the courage to ask his father a question.

“Excuse me, sir?” he asks, tentatively, over dinner one night.

“Hmm?” His father doesn’t look up from his meal. (Simon has gotten pretty good at cooking things other than pasta.) (It was that or eat takeaway for the rest of his life, and you can only eat the same few meals on repeat before the monotony becomes unbearable.)

“I was wondering… Sir, there’s a girl at school I’ve become rather fond of. Her name is Agatha, and if you’re alright with it, I’d like to study with her at the library on Friday. As a date, sir,” he adds hurriedly.

His father considers this for an excruciatingly long moment.

“...No,” he says finally. “If you’ve found a girlfriend, I’d like to meet her. You’ll study here, at the kitchen table.”

Simon swallows thickly. He hasn’t… told Agatha anything about his father. She’s noticed a few bruises here and there, of course, but he’s got years of practice at lying.

Still, he’s not sure he’d be able to explain it away if his father got angry enough to hit him while she was here. He’s never brought a friend home before, not even Penny -- not even Baz, when they were still speaking -- for that exact reason.

His father is looking at him now.

“That’s not a  _ problem, _ is it?” he growls.

“...No, sir. That’s fine. Thank you.”

* * *

 

And somehow, it is.

That Friday, Agatha walks home with him, her fingers laced with his. (Simon tries to pretend he doesn't notice Baz walking a block behind them, doesn't feel the weight of his gaze.)

They reach Simon's house, and step inside to escape the brightness of the September afternoon.

"Hey, son!" His father rounds the corner, a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder. "I thought I'd leave work early so I could come meet your little friend."

Simon freezes. He wasn't expecting to have to contend with his father  _ and  _ Agatha right away.

Fortunately for him, Agatha takes it in stride. "Hi, Mr. Salisbury," she says, stepping forward and holding out her hand. "I don't know if Simon's told you about me. I'm Agatha."

His father shakes her hand, and Simon tries not to shudder at how thoroughly his hand swallows hers, how easily he could crush her beautiful fingers. "Please, call me David," he says with a smile. "You kids hungry? I thought I'd make you some cookies for while you study."

"That sounds lovely. Thank you." Agatha, made of pure sunshine, takes a seat at their kitchen table and pulls out her laptop. After a moment's hesitation -- did he step into another dimension? -- Simon follows suit.

Three hours pass in that surreal fashion. Simon barely gets any homework done, too busy wondering when his father is going to snap and turn on him.

Finally, a few minutes after 7, Agatha gets a text.

"Oh, shoot," she mutters, then looks up at Simon. "That was my mum. My dad's on his way. They're having friends over, and they want me home."

"Oh. Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?" Simon's father asks from the couch.

She gives him a sad sort of smile. "Unfortunately, I can't. Another night, though."

"Well, how about tomorrow?"

Simon blinks. Is his father setting up a second date…  _ for  _ him?

"That would be lovely!" Her phone chimes again. "My dad's here."

"Oh," Simon says finally. "Okay. D'you want me to walk you out?"

She nods, smiling.

So he picks up her bag -- with no small effort; how does she  _ carry _ this much all the time? -- and walks her to the car, exchanging pleasantries with her father and dreading the explosion from his own when he inevitably has to go back inside.

"I'll see you at four?" he asks her finally.

She nods. "See you then." And she leans forward and kisses him softly, just once, before getting into the car and driving away.


	21. A Glimmer of Hope, Like an Exhale of Smoke in the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had a tension headache for the last several days (I temporarily banished it for most of Sunday and some of Monday but my body hates me so it's back) and I'm pretty sure I'm dehydrated and I feel like a sculpture of the Giving Tree made entirely out of feces, so I apologize for uploading this on Tuesday instead of Monday. I am a chaos dragon and a heathen and I am sorry. After this we've got four more chapters, and then the as-yet-unwritten epilogue. I'll... get to it eventually.

SIMON

Surprisingly, no explosion comes.

That’s not to say that the beatings stop. His father still takes advantage of Simon’s every failing to use him as his own personal punching bag, but things between them become… civil, somehow. It’s clear that Simon’s father approves of Agatha in a way that he never approved of Baz.

(He still takes every opportunity to insult Baz, though.) (Once, he said, “I can’t believe the gall of those people, staying in that house after their fucking fairy of a son  _ forced _ himself on you.”) (Simon tried to correct him, and wound up so badly beaten that his father had to take him to the hospital to have his broken arm reset and his leg put in a splint, complaining the entire time that Simon was weak enough to allow his bones to break at all.)

(If he’d had a college fund or a paycheck, he’s sure the cost of his medical bills would have come out of it.)

Agatha never quite catches on about what happens behind closed doors in the Salisbury house, but she somehow always knows the exact right time to arrive to delay Simon’s father’s wrath. Simon can’t count the number of times he’s been saved from a beating by Agatha’s rhythmic knock at the front door.

At some point, Penny and Agatha become friends, and the three of them sort of form a pack for the rest of secondary school. It helps twelfth year pass more easily than eleventh, and Simon manages to scrape together grades acceptable enough that Davy lets him off with a too-hard slap on the back. 

And then, just like that, thirteenth year is over and he’s walking across the stage at graduation, and secondary school is over.

It’s after the ceremony, when everyone is standing around the football pitch in their gowns, holding bouquets of flowers and balloons, that Baz comes over to talk to him for the first time in nearly two years.

Penny’s the one who spots him first. “BAZ!” she shrieks, launching herself at him. Simon whirls around just in time to see Baz grunt and stagger slightly with the force of her jump, but all those years of playing football have made him strong --  _ fuck _ , he’s still  _ really _ attractive, no matter how hard Simon tries not to notice it -- and he manages to keep his balance.

“Fuck’s sake, Bunce, are you  _ trying _ to kill me?” he groans, enfolding her in a hug anyway.

She leans back suddenly, manic grin on her face. “You know what I just realized?”

“...What?”

Penny adopts a solemn expression. “Pitch on the pitch,” she says seriously, then bursts out laughing as colour floods Baz’s cheeks and he shoves her gently. Beside Simon, Agatha giggles, and even he can’t suppress a snort.

Baz makes eye contact with him over Penny’s head, and their laughter dies in the air.

“Hey,” Baz says softly.

“Hi.”

“Can I talk to you?” He looks from Simon to Penny to Agatha and back. “Alone?”

Simon looks around for his father, spotting him with his back to Simon, talking to Agatha’s parents. They look enamoured with the conversation. Simon figures he has a few minutes before his father checks on him.

“I… sure.”

Baz takes his arm -- gingerly, ever so gingerly -- fucking hell, even  _ now _ Baz is still so unbelievably caring -- God, Simon has missed him -- and leads him a short distance away, just out of earshot.

“So, er… I know it’s been a while, and you’re probably still mad at me, but… I’ll be honest. These last two years without you have been pretty shit. So, if you’re alright with it… I’d like us to go back to being friends. D’you… D’you think we can do that?”

“Baz, I-” Simon starts, but before he can get any farther, a large, strong hand clamps down on the back of his neck.

“Simon,” his father says, voice pleasant on the surface but venom-laced underneath, “what are you doing all the way over here? The Wellbeloves are waiting to congratulate you.” Holding Simon by the scruff of the neck like a disobedient puppy, he leads him back towards Agatha and her parents. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what I swore to do if you spoke to that boy again,” he hisses into Simon’s ears.

He manages to get one last look at Baz as he’s marched away -- but after seeing the heartbroken look on his face, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short. Don't worry, the next one is something you've all been waiting for... :) In other news, I have my first class tomorrow (Accounting, dear god I'm going to die) so fingers crossed I don't run into anyone I went to high school with. I am soooo not in the mood to be deadnamed this week. (Or, you know. Ever.)


	22. The Stars Are Falling, Babe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the moment we've all been waiting for.

DAVID

His son is 18 today.

Eighteen years ago, his wife used her dying breaths to make him swear that he would do right by their son. And for the last eighteen years, he has failed her.

Not once did he stop to consider how losing Lucy was affecting Simon, how treating him as a problem or a punching bag would twist him.

(He should have known better.)

David takes a swig of lukewarm beer, emptying his third or fourth bottle, or maybe this is his fifth -- he’s already lost track. Everything is sideways.

He knows he’s wronged Simon. It eats at him, on the nights he doesn’t drink himself to sleep. He knows he’s no better than his own father, beating a defenseless child over something as meaningless as a grade or a jump. Fuck,  _ of course _ the kid was scared of him; he was  _ eight _ , for God’s sake!

Lucy. Oh,  _ Lucy. _ What would she think if she could see him now?

(He knows the answer to that. She would  _ hate  _ him.) (She’d have taken Simon and left his sorry arse in the dust years ago.) (She might come back to shake some sense into him, but he would never be allowed anywhere near their child.)

(Maybe that would have been for the best.)

Some father he turned out to be.

He opens another bottle, number… Oh, who gives a shit -- and chugs it as fast as he can. He needs to stop feeling like this.

He needs to stop  _ feeling. _

Part of him wants to go down the hall and apologize to Simon for every thing he’s ever done to wrong him. Part of him wants to bash his head into a wall.

(Part of him wants to kick Simon’s ribcage in until neither of them can see anything but red.) (He takes another long drink to shut that part up.)

The largest part of him wants to  _ stop. _ Stop drinking, stop hurting.

Stop living.

He pushes himself to his feet and tries to walk towards the medicine cabinet, but he loses his balance on the first step and lands with a  _ bang _ on the floor. Feebly, he tries to push himself up, but he can’t. The world is too heavy on his shoulders.

Ah, well. Drinking works just as well as pills.

Lying on the floor, he drinks one bottle after another. After a while, his vision starts to go black, and when he starts to panic, he takes another sip to ease his mind.

_ Lucy, _ he thinks.  _ I’m coming, baby. I’ll see you soon. _

And slowly, ever so slowly, David Salisbury slips away.


	23. How I'm Doing All Alone

SIMON

Three days after he turns 18, Simon Snow becomes an orphan.

It’s not a shock, really. He’s known his father was headed down this road for a long, long time.

But it still hurts to find himself all alone.

It took him two days to realize that something was wrong with his father. He normally goes on drinking binges around this time of year, true, but after nearly forty-eight hours of utter silence, he’d figured it was worth the risk to check on him.

His father was already more than cold when he found him.

After the police came and took his body away, Simon was faced with a whole host of tasks. Thankfully for him, the moment the Wellbeloves heard, they stepped in and took care of the whole thing. All Simon had to do was put on a suit, hold Agatha’s hand, and try not to cry.

And so Simon stands at the side of his father’s grave, the hand of a beautiful girl he’s never truly loved in his, and sprinkles a handful of dirt onto David Salisbury’s coffin, fighting back the tears he can feel prickling at his eyes.

He knows it doesn’t make sense for him to feel this way. He knows it with every fiber of his being. This was the man who beat him, who threatened his life and the life of the boy he loved. This was the man who blamed him for his mother’s death, who whipped him and kicked him and broke several bones, who locked him in his room for an entire weekend on more than one occasion and never said so much as a “Happy birthday.”

But this was also the man who raised him, who changed his diapers and nursed him when he was sick and taught him the rules of football. This was the man who bought him his favorite foods and introduced him to movies and always made sure he had a roof over his head.

It takes him a moment to realize the priest has stopped speaking and people are walking away. Agatha rests a hand on his shoulder, and he waves her off, signaling that she should go after her parents.

Only after she’s gone does he notice Baz.

He’s walking away, his back to Simon and to the breeze, and suddenly it hits him.

His father is gone.

His father is  _ gone. _

His father, the only thing standing between him and Baz, is gone.

Without sparing a thought for Agatha, or for anyone else, Simon sets off through the graveyard, trailing just a few steps behind Baz. As desperately as he wants to talk to him, he needs a moment to figure out what to say.

(“I love you”? “I’m sorry”? What do you even  _ say _ to the boy you pushed away because your father threatened to kill him?)

After a few minutes, Baz pauses at a set of low stone stairs leading down, and sits on the top step, looking out into the distance. Even after two years, the words of his song still come back to Simon in perfect clarity.

_ So if you don’t mind, I’ll walk that line, _

_ Stuck on a bridge between us. _

Simon takes a deep breath, steps forward, and lightly touches Baz’s shoulder.

It takes a moment, as though he were lost deep in his own mind, but Baz turns and blinks up at Simon, surprised. Neither boy says a word as Baz gets to his feet and they embrace, tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Baz whispers into his ear.

“No,” Simon whispers back. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

They hold each other like that for what feels like an eternity, filled with longing and relief all at the same time.

And then all at once, Baz pulls back, leaving one hand on Simon’s cheek, looking him in the eye, a thousand questions written in his expression.

“Why did you shut me out?” he asks first.

“I… My father, he-”

But Simon doesn’t get any farther than that, because suddenly a voice rings out across the hills, velvet and silk and the absolute last thing he wants to hear.

“Simon?”

And there stands Agatha, looking utterly angelic even in her black funeral dress, glancing between Simon and Baz with distrust in her eye.

So he goes with her.

What else can he do?

* * *

 

Two hours later, at the reception, Simon sits on the couch at the Wellbeloves' house. Agatha is on his left, Penny is on his right, and Baz is noticeably absent.

The food and drinks table is perpetually surrounded, but not one person has come up to Simon to offer their condolences. Their community is relatively close-knit, but everyone seems to be more interested in catching up on the latest gossip than providing comfort to the grieving son of an investment banker and well-known family man.

(Ha.)

Simon himself can’t stop playing through what happened in the graveyard, over and over. Seeing Baz. Going after him. Their hug. His would-be confession, and Agatha’s sudden appearance.

He wonders if this whirlwind, the cyclone in his mind, was how his father felt. Maybe that was why he chose to drink.

...Maybe it helps.

The only thing that’s clear to him is this: he can’t stay with Agatha. She’s a lovely girl, really; he just… doesn’t love her that way. And he has someone else on his mind -- if he’ll have him anymore.

Besides, he’s got something to do, and it wouldn’t be fair to her to drag her down with him.

“Agatha,” he says suddenly, making both her and Penny jump, “can I talk to you outside?”

She sets down her drink. “Of course.”

Threading their way through the crowds of mourners, they make their way into the warm summer air of the afternoon. “What’s up?” she asks.

“Look, Agatha. You’re a really nice person, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but… I have to break up with you. I just don’t… I don’t really feel that way about you.”

She blinks, stunned. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s just… I’ve got a lot going on right now, and I’ve been wanting to say this for awhile, but… I think you should be with someone a bit more put-together. Someone who deserves you.”

“...I don’t suppose there’s anything I could say to change your mind, is there.”

Simon shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, he turns and walks off into the night.

* * *

 

AGATHA

She stands in the grass and watches Simon’s retreating back until he vanishes into the darkness, and then she turns and heads back into the house.

“Well,” she says brusquely, sitting back down next to Penny. “Simon just broke up with me and I need a girls’ night. Do you have plans?”

“Oh,” Penny says, surprised. “Er, no.”

“Great. Sleepover at yours?”

“Er… I guess so.”

“Brilliant. I’ll go tell my mum.”

Already feeling a bit better -- she and Simon were never all that attached to each other, really -- Agatha flounces off to find her mother in the horde of grieving friends and neighbours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you guys think? I was a little worried about the scene where Simon and Agatha break up because it felt a little empty to me, but my boyfriend assures me it fits. Thoughts, comments, and questions are of course always appreciated.


	24. Everything Is Shattering, And It's My Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy so long story short I've been trying to get my shit together (there are lists. And whiteboards. Like, I genuinely have three whiteboards and a chalkboard in my room now. I'm THAT extra) and I completely fucking forgot to upload this???? I am so sorry. Anyway, yeah. Just one more chapter after this, and then... in theory the epilogue. Mother of God I really need to write that...

SIMON

He doesn’t really have a direction picked out, really. He just walks until he finds a main road, and then hails the first taxi he sees.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

“Somewhere with drinks,” Simon replies. The cabbie nods knowingly and pulls back into the road.

* * *

 

Less than ten minutes later, the cabbie pulls up to a clean-looking pub called The Viper’s Nest. He hands the cabbie £7.50 and steps out, tie already loosened in the cab. Slowly, nervously, Simon crosses the parking lot and pulls the heavy door open.

Inside, the atmosphere is warm and friendly. It's fairly empty this early in the evening, but most of the patrons who are there are clustered in small groups, just that level of tipsy between amicable and rowdy. Simon threads his way between the tables and takes a seat at the bar.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asks, wiping down the counter a few stools away. She looks to be in her early forties, with close-cropped black hair, a nose ring, and warm, reddish-brown skin that reminds Simon of Baz.

Fuck,  _ Baz. _

_ God, _ he really messed things up.

"What d'you recommend for someone looking to get utterly smashed?" Simon asks.

She looks him up and down. "You're pretty young to be looking to get smashed this early, aren't you? I'm gonna need to see an ID, mate."

Simon pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands her his ID. "Buried my dad today," he says by way of explanation.

The woman quirks an eyebrow at something on his card, but doesn't say anything beyond, "Yikes." She slides his ID back across the counter and reaches for a bottle of whiskey. "First round's on the house, mate."

"Thanks."

"I'm Fiona, by the way."

"Simon."

"So tell me, Simon," Fiona says, pouring something brown into a glass. "Ever been sloshed before?"

"No," he admits. "Dad was a bit of a drunk. Never wanted to try it."

She sets the glass in front of him. "This stuff's a bit strong. Start off slow."

Of course Simon does the opposite of that and takes a giant swig right off the bat -- and immediately chokes, gasping at the burn in his throat.

"Whoa, easy, kid. I'm not talking outta my arse for no reason here. This shit's an acquired taste."

"Yeah, no shit."

Fiona tops off his glass. There's something familiar about her, like he knew her a long time ago, but he can't place where. "Try again. Slower."

He does so, this time expecting the burn that comes with the drink.

"Better?" she asks. He nods.

"So," she says, leaning on her elbows against the counter. "Want to talk about it?"

He takes another sip -- each one is easier than the last. "About what?"

"Daddy dearest. You're Dave Salisbury's kid, right? Seemed like a nice enough guy to me."

A wry laugh escapes Simon's lips before he can stop himself. "Trust me, my father was many things. A good liar was one of them."

She studies him. "He the one who gave you that?" she asks, gesturing to the fading bruise on his cheekbone.

"Oh, yeah." He knows he shouldn't be telling all of this to a stranger, especially not so soon after his father went into the ground, but something about the whiskey and her character makes him feel safe. "One of the first things he taught me was how to take a punch."

Fiona gives a low whistle and tops off his glass. "I'll keep 'em coming."

* * *

 

FIONA

Okay, it's not like she  _ expected _ Simon to remember her. She only met him a few times before she and Malcolm got into a huge fight and she finally bothered to get her own place, and the kid's clearly got a lot going on. But you'd think there would be  _ some _ sort of recognition, right?

She's only his future aunt, after all.

Simon has clearly never been smashed before, because he's had exactly two beers and already he looks like he's about to fall off his stool. She rolls her eyes, pulls out her phone, and dials Baz's number.

He answers on the third ring. "Hey, Fi, what's up?"

"Hey, listen. I'm at work, and I've got Loverboy here at the counter. He's smashed as hell, you should probably come get him."

Baz sighs. "Why'd you let him get sloshed in the first place?"

"Hey, don't blame me just 'cause your man candy can't hold his liquor."

"Ooh, candy!" Simon says. "I should go get some candy." He starts to push away from the counter, but seems to think better of it when the stool starts to rotate. "Heeeeeeyyy, since when does  _ that  _ happen?"

Fiona rolls her eyes. "Just come get him. I'm not a babysitter."

_ I do make a pretty good matchmaker, though, _ she thinks to herself as she hangs up.

* * *

 

BAZ

The entire way to the pub, he wonders if he's doing the right thing. Should he call Penny instead? Will Simon even want to see him? He supposes they  _ did _ have that moment in the graveyard, but… does that mean that everything that happened between them is behind them now? Is he supposed to go back to pretending he's okay with only being Simon's friend?

He still doesn't have answers by the time he pulls into the lot of the Viper's Nest and puts the car in park. But he forces himself to get out and go inside anyway. If Simon needs him, like  _ fuck _ is he not gonna be there.

The sun has only just started to set, so the pub is still pretty empty. It takes Baz all of half a second to find Simon, slumped at the bar with an empty glass next to his head.

Fiona sees him coming and reaches across the bar to shake Simon’s shoulder. “Oi, sunshine. Your knight is here.”

“My night…?” Simon asks, confused. He sits up and looks around until he spots Baz. “Oh! Oh! Baz!  _ Hey! _ Can we go get some candy?”

“Christ, Fi,” Baz mutters. “How many did he have?”

“Two,” Fiona replies. “Technically one and a half, because he poured the other half of one all over my counter.”

Simon loops his arms over Baz’s shoulders, trailing one hand over the nape of his neck. Baz shivers at the touch. “You’re  _ cute, _ ” Simon slurs. “And your skin… it’s so…  _ soft. _ Like a baby… Or a koala.”

“Have you ever actually touched a koala?” Baz asks him.

Simon frowns. “No… But they look soft.”

“Okay.” Baz threads an arm around Simon’s waist and pulls him to his feet, leading him through the pub. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

“Don’t wanna go home,” Simon mutters as they reach the parking lot. “S’cold. And dark. And smells funny.”

Baz hesitates. “Then we’ll go to my place. You can sleep over, like old times.”

Simon stops. “No,” he says, surprisingly clearly.

“Why not?”

He blinks, looking lost. “...Dad said so.”

“Your  _ father  _ said we couldn’t hang out anymore?”

“...Said he’d…” Simon leans close, conspiratorially, and drags a finger across his neck. “You  _ and _ me.”

Baz can’t breathe.

He knew Simon’s father had been bad, but  _ this? _ What kind of man threatens to kill his son for spending time with his best friend?

_ More than his best friend, _ Baz thinks wryly, and then it hits.

Simon’s father threatened to kill them both because he couldn’t stand the thought of them being together.

Simon’s father threatened to _ kill  _ them both because  _ he couldn’t stand the thought of them being together. _

Suddenly Simon isn’t the only one feeling a bit sick.

“Hey,” Simon says suddenly. “Baz. Hey, Baz.”

“Mm?”

He leans close to Baz, their faces inches apart, and… taps Baz’s nose. “Boop,” he whispers, giggling.

Baz rolls his eyes. “Come on, you beautiful idiot. Let’s go.”


	25. Never Knew Loving Could Hurt This Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all should thank my boyfriend for actually reminding me to post this.
> 
> Me: *in the bathroom, brushing my teeth*  
> Him, from my bed: Post your chapter. Give the people what they want, Jules. Give the people what they waaaaaaaant.
> 
> So that's what I did. He is truly like 80% of the reason I continue to retain my sanity tbh.

SIMON

He wakes the next morning with a pounding headache.

More than a headache, actually. It feels like someone tied him to a roundabout and left it spinning for hours, then poured sand in his mouth and beat him over the head with a rock. God, what did he do to piss off his father _ this  _ time?

Oh.

It’s only after he starts to remember what’s happened to him in the last few days that he realizes he’s somewhere all too familiar. Somewhere he hasn’t been in years.

Somewhere he missed almost as much as the person to whom it belonged.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” whispers a familiar voice from somewhere nearby. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like someone pissed in my oatmeal,” Simon replies, then winces at the sound of his own voice, too loud and grating on his ears for comfort. “Fuckin’ hell, it’s bright in here.”

“Here.” Baz comes into view, holding out two aspirin and a glass of water. “Figured you might need these.”

“Oh my god, I love you,” Simon says, swallowing the aspirin and chugging the entire glass of water. It’s only when he’s finished and seen Baz’s face that he realizes what he said. “I. Er. I mean… Fuck, that’s not what I- I mean, it  _ is,  _ I just-”

Baz leans forward and cuts him off with a kiss. Simon blinks for a moment, surprised, and then relaxes into it, running his hands through Baz’s hair, hangover all but forgotten. (It helps that he has a lot of experience ignoring pain.)

(Nope. Not thinking about that now.)

_ Fuck, _ he’s missed this.

After what feels like a blissful eternity, Baz pulls away, resting his forehead against Simon’s as they both try to catch their breath.

“I’ve wanted to do that for two years,” Simon confesses.

Baz smiles. “I’ve wanted to do it for five.”

Simon rolls his eyes and punches him, lightly, in the arm. “Git.”

Still smiling, Baz sits down on the mattress next to Simon. (Belatedly, he realizes Baz must have given him his bed for the night.) (Fuck, he’s too soft for this.) Simon threads his fingers through Baz’s and gives his hand a squeeze.

“So,” Baz starts, and Simon can immediately feel the change in the atmosphere. “That thing you said last night. About us, and your dad. Is… Was that true?”

Face alight, Simon nods. “He was waiting in my room when I went home that day. Beat me senseless, made me swear never to see you again if I didn’t want us both to die, and boarded up my window.”

Baz smacks his face with his palm. “I should’ve realized.”

Simon looks at him quizzically. “What did you think happened?”

“...It’s embarrassing.”

Simon nudges him in the ribs. “Tell me.”

“...Okay, fine. I… kind of convinced myself that after you’d gotten home, you… realized you were way too good for me or got mad at me for pressuring you into it or something.”

“...You know that’s total bullshit, right?”

“I mean. I do  _ now. _ ”

“Baz. Look at me.”

He does.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, okay? The only reason I could live with myself for hurting you the way I did was because I thought I was keeping you safe. Got it?”

Baz hesitates. “I guess so. It’s just-”

“I meant what I said. I love you, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, stupid name and all.”

He snorts. “Piss off.”

Simon feigns offense. “Baz! I can’t believe you would betray me like this!”

“Shut up, Si, you know I love you, too.”

They kiss again, gently. They have all the time in the world now.

“So,” Baz wonders aloud. “Does this make us boyfriends?”

Simon pretends to consider this. “Hmm… I dunno, Baz. That sounds well gay.”

Baz whacks him with a pillow, lightly. “Wanker.”

“Aww, you love me.”

He flips Simon the bird, and Simon cackles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: my boyfriend actually told me he loved me before we were properly on the highway on the way to the restaurant. Freudian slips about fettuccine alfredo, am I right? (Also a fun fact: there are two Olive Gardens near us, and because I forgot which town the closer one was in, we wound up going to the one further away -- and continued to do so until we found out they support Trump -- because it's in the opposite direction and we were already committed. I really hope they stop supporting Trump in, like, the next five years because that particular Olive Garden may or may not be part of a scheme I have for the semi-distant future... >:D)  
> Anyway, yeah, I'll get the epilogue up... eventually. I have no idea when. Sorry, I try very hard but at the end of the day I'm still a chaos dragon.


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been several months now, and I've decided to accept that I'm never actually going to write out the epilogue, even with a global quarantine now in effect. Instead, have a summary of what I was going to put into the epilogue, in bullet-point format.

  * So Simon and Baz are together
    * It’s nice
    * More than nice; it’s perfect
    * There’s obviously still a lot to work out but they’re doing it together now
  * Simon really _really_ doesn’t want to stay in his father’s house anymore
    * He’s pretty much taken to sleeping at Baz’s like, every night
    * With his and Daphne’s help, Simon puts the house up on the market
    * It takes awhile but they finally find a buyer -- a bookish nonbinary person from America and their husband, who are looking for a home that’s in walking distance of their daughter’s new school
      * There’s no backyard, but they only have a few indoor cats and have no interest in grilling, so they don’t mind
      * They’re going to use the bedroom Simon’s father used as a storage room for all of Lucy’s things as a library/office
        * (Self-insert? Yep)
  * A couple of months later, they’re living in a flat in London
    * Simon works at a bakery while Baz attends the School of Engineering
    * It’s… nice
    * Things have worked out
    * Sure, it’s rough. Simon has been through a LOT.
    * But they’re getting through it
    * (They both agreed they’d never drink.)
  * The fic ends with Baz’s graduation, after which Simon takes him out to a fancy restaurant, gets down on one knee, and asks, “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, will you marry me?”
    * Baz says, “Of course, you idiot” and they kiss
    * Boom! End of fic



**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice to me, I did my best.


End file.
